


it had to be you

by curtaincall



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Bickering, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Freezing Time At The Worst Possible Moments, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Romantic Comedy, The Arrangement (Good Omens), angels and demons can't be friends, somehow they're even less important here than in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23530069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall
Summary: “What I’m saying,” said Aziraphale, looking fixedly ahead, “and please don’t take this as a personal insult in any way, is that an angel and a demon can’t be friends.”“Why not?”“Because,” said Aziraphale, firmly. “It’s against the order of things. You’re supposed to tempt. I’m supposed to thwart. We can’t go being friends.”*A canon-divergent AU inspired byWhen Harry Met Sally.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 286
Kudos: 499
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fic for the Good Omens Romcom Event, based on _When Harry Met Sally_.

_In the beginning_

“Can’t be much good for your wings, that,” the demon said, after a few moments.

“I beg your pardon?”

He motioned vaguely at the sky. “All this wet. Can’t be good for the feathers.”

“I’m sorry,” said the angel, in tones of polite offence, and began withdrawing his wing. “I don’t believe I asked for _critique.”_

Crawly shrugged. “Hey, don’t take it the wrong way. Just looking out for your pinions. Very finicky things, pinions. Get all soggy and then they’re a beast to put right.”

“I had _thought,”_ said Aziraphale, in a voice the approximate temperature of a polar ice cap, “that _perhaps_ I was being _helpful._ By covering you.”

Crawly raised his hands in defence. “Look, hey, it’s not like I’m ungrateful—”

“Foolish of me,” Aziraphale said, addressing a nearby rock, “to think that a _demon_ would appreciate _kindness.”_

“Oh, come _on,”_ said Crawly.

Aziraphale pointedly ignored him, and continued apostrophizing the rock. “It _does_ seem to be my day for going _unappreciated,_ I must say. Not so much as a thank-you for the sword, and now—”

“Did you _expect_ a thank-you for the sword?”

“One doesn’t do good things in expectation of thanks,” Aziraphale said virtuously.

“You do _not_ get to complain about not being thanked and then pivot right to _that_ garbage,” said Crawly. He was faintly aware that something seemed to have gone wrong.

Aziraphale shot him a withering look. Crawly, accordingly, withered. (Only a little, though. Not so’s you’d notice. A very dignified sort of wither, it was.)

Aziraphale visibly softened. “It _is_ a bit hypocritical of me, I suppose. It’s just— _what_ a day this has been. I _am_ worried about them, you know. The humans. Only the two of them, out there all alone—well, three soon—”

“Bad timing,” said Crawly.

“Rather. I don’t mean to judge,” said Aziraphale judgmentally, “but if they hadn’t been—” he made a complicated motion with his hands— “so much, they wouldn’t have _that_ complication, anyway.”

“Uh,” said Crawly. “Sorry, if they hadn’t—”

 _“You_ know,” said Aziraphale, meaningfully.

“Uh,” said Crawly, again. “No?”

Aziraphale made a gesture that only escaped being vulgar because the concept of vulgarity had yet to be invented.

 _“Oh,”_ said Crawly, enlightened. “Well, they _did_ seem to be enjoying themselves, so.”

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale noncommittally.

“Although, they seemed to have just as much fun doing the bit with their mouths,” Crawly said. “I thought that didn’t look half bad, did you?”

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale asked, and stepped away slightly.

“Thought it looked like it might be fun, actually,” said Crawly.

 _“No,”_ said Aziraphale, with evident outrage, and took another step back. “How _dare_ you?”

“Sorry,” said Crawly, feeling as though perhaps he’d missed something, “how dare I _what?”_

 _“Proposition_ me,” said Aziraphale, with a horror so great it bordered on pleasure. “I have _no_ intention of putting my mouth anywhere near your—your—”

“What?” asked Crawly, and then, realizing, “Oh no, no, no, that’s not what—I didn’t mean—no!”

Aziraphale huffed. It was a huff that said “I don’t believe you, but if I pretend I do it’ll be more pleasant for everyone.”

They stood in silence for another moment.

“So,” said Crawly, with the faint hope of salvaging the conversation, “what’re you up to? For, you know. The rest of time. Now that everything’s been mucked up.” 

Aziraphale shrugged. “Not certain. I expect I’ll get orders of some sort shortly. I believe everyone upstairs is still rather occupied with recent events.”

“Makes sense,” Crawly said. “Waiting to hear myself, I s’pose.” He paused. “Seems like we might both be around here for a while, then, hm?”

“We might,” said Aziraphale, cautiously. “But you—you realize, of course, that we can never be _friends.”_

“What do you mean?”

“What I’m saying,” said Aziraphale, looking fixedly ahead, “and please don’t take this as a personal insult in any way, is that an angel and a demon can’t be friends.”

“Why not?”

 _“Because,”_ said Aziraphale, firmly. “It’s against the order of things. You’re supposed to tempt. I’m supposed to thwart. We can’t go being _friends.”_

“Well,” said Crawly, “that’s not _necessarily_ true, is it? I mean, I don’t want to tempt you. And you don’t—I mean, there’s nothing _to_ thwart.”

“Yet,” said Aziraphale, forebodingly. “It’s early days. But it’s simple. I’ll always _know_ I’m supposed to be thwarting your wiles.”

Crawly frowned. “What if I didn’t _have_ any wiles?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, “you see, that’s exactly what someone wily would say.”

There was a pause. Crawly stared glumly ahead at the world beyond the Garden, which seemed to have grown much larger in the last few minutes. “Well,” he said, at last, “I guess we won’t be friends, then.”

“I suppose not,” said Aziraphale, with at least a hint of genuine regret.

“It’s too bad,” said Crawly. “You were the only person I knew on Earth.”

* * *

_Four thousand years later_

It was wet in the field. Aziraphale greatly disliked being wet, and he could feel the dampness soaking in through his clothing, in a way that foreshadowed a rather unpleasant chill later on. He hadn’t been on Earth for quite some time, and his corporation had grown somewhat used to the Heavenly atmosphere, which stayed, always, at that perfect temperature where one forgets to be aware of the temperature.

Still, he’d been instructed to proclaim the Messiah’s birth to some shepherds, and he was jolly well ready to start proclaiming.

Trouble was, the shepherds hadn’t shown up. He’d been told they’d come to this field around mid-afternoon, but it was creeping up on evening, and no sign of them. And of course there would be no getting ahold of Upper Management today, not with how wrapped up they’d all been in the Son of God Rollout. 

Which meant, he realized, beginning to fret in earnest, that the Christ Child was about to enter the world with only his family for witnesses, apparently in a _manger_ (due to some bureaucratic mix-up he hadn’t been there for), and those of his superiors who were more invested in the pomp-and-circumstance side of things than the ascetic were likely to be not at all pleased. 

He was just about ready to try contacting Upstairs, busy signals be damned, when he heard something rustle in the grass.

“Who’s there?” Aziraphale asked, hands flying to grab his Heavenly weapon before remembering that he didn’t have one.

The rustling stopped. Aziraphale waited a moment in silence, then took a tentative step closer, paused, took another, paused, took another—and found himself practically nose-to-nose with someone who _definitely_ hadn’t been there a second ago.

He hopped rather inelegantly backwards in surprise. “I _beg_ your pardon,” he began, glancing at the stranger, and was walloped by a strong sense of familiarity. “Oh! You’re—you’re—I’m _very_ sorry, I know I know you from _somewhere—”_ Which, he realized, made no sense, because he’d been off-planet for longer than any mortal lifespan, and the person in front of him certainly wasn’t an _angel,_ so— 

“Oh yeah,” the stranger-not-stranger said, recognition dawning on his face. “You’re the, the angel. From the thingie. The Garden. With the sword.”

“And you’re the _Tempter,”_ Aziraphale said, in what probably weren’t sufficiently outraged tones. “Away, you _fiend.”_

“Oh, come on,” the demon said, sighing. _(What_ was his name? Something crawl...y.) “Thought we went over this. I’m not here to tempt you. As _if_. We _do_ do things besides tempting, you know. Not just...one-track minds.”

“Oh yes?” Aziraphale asked. “Like _what?”_

“Um,” Crawly said, and fidgeted. “Stuff. Lots of demon-y stuff that I can’t think of at this _exact moment—”_

“So what _demon-y stuff_ are you supposed to be doing at this _exact moment,_ Crawly?” 

Crawly, unexpectedly, flinched. “Uh. Actually changed m’name. Crowley,” he explained quickly. “And you’re prob’ly still, uh…”

“Aziraphale,” said Aziraphale, with the condescending superiority of one who has just scored an etiquette point but is choosing not to mention it.

“Right, right, tip of my tongue,” said Crowley unconvincingly. “Anyway, point is, I’m just here to observe the general human reaction to the birth of the Son of God. Strictly recon.”

“Hmph,” said Aziraphale, and then, all the worry that had been momentarily dislodged by Crowley’s surprise appearance returning at once— “well, it seems there isn’t going to _be_ any human reaction. Or at least, not much of one, if these dratted shepherds don’t show up.”

Crowley made a sympathetic face. “Proclaiming duty, huh?”

“The very same,” Aziraphale admitted. “And I’m a _bit_ worried I’ve got the wrong spot—”

“Nah,” Crowley said immediately. “They’re probably just running late.”

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. “How do _you_ know?”

“We-ell,” Crowley said, “there _may_ have been a _slight_ sheep collision in the center of Bethlehem—”

“Which, I take it, _you_ caused?”

“I would say less _caused_ and more _inspired—”_

“You don’t _inspire_ a sheep collision, you _inspire_ elegiac poetry—”

“Maybe _you_ do—”

“That,” said Aziraphale acerbically, “is beside the point. How, pray tell, did you _inspire_ this...ovine debacle?”

Crowley grinned suddenly. “Oh, it was _good,”_ he said, looking directly at Aziraphale, eyes alight with mischief. “Or, well, _evil,_ but, you know. Literally all I had to do was duck behind a building and yell ‘Samuel’s sheep have foot rot,’ and then one of ‘em jumped on another and called him a filthy liar, and they were going at it with their crooks as weapons in no time. Sheep got all mixed up, of course, and no one could get through for a solid hour, even _after_ the fighting ended. So,” he said, “they should be along any minute now.”

“ _Strictly recon_ , hmm?” Aziraphale asked, but found that he felt more like laughing than tutting.

“Maybe not _strictly,”_ Crowley admitted. “Do you ever—” He broke off, and cocked his head, listening. “That’ll be them, I think.”

“You need to—to _hide,_ or be a snake again, or something,” Aziraphale said hurriedly, “I can’t be proclaiming the birth of the Lord with a _demon_ standing next to me—”

“Might undermine the aesthetic,” Crowley agreed, and abruptly vanished. “Good luck,” he said, voice now coming from the ground, and Aziraphale heard him slither quickly away.

The shepherds were chatting amongst themselves as they approached, and Aziraphale cleared his throat politely in an attempt to get their attention.

This was, perhaps unsurprisingly, ineffective, and Aziraphale escalated to calling “Excuse me!” and “Pardon!” before realizing that he was, in fact, going to have to follow the Proclamation Handbook.

He sighed, and unfurled his wings, and levitated the prescribed three feet off the ground, pulling his halo into corporeal being and surrounding himself with what he hoped was a noticeable but not blinding glow. 

“Erm,” he said, miraculously enhancing his vocal projection, “Hail, shepherds!”

 _Finally,_ they looked up.

“Be not afraid,” Aziraphale continued, following the Handbook’s instructions despite the fact that his audience looked more confused than terrified. “I bring you tidings of great joy!”

“Huh?” one of the shepherds asked, and squinted.

This was not in the Handbook. “Good news,” Aziraphale clarified, “for—” he wrenched himself back on-script— “unto us a savior has been born, in the city of David.”

The shepherds, instead of crying out with joy, or falling to their knees, or whatever it was they were supposed to be doing, merely looked puzzled.

“The Messiah!” Aziraphale said, growing impatient. “He’s here! Now! Over in Bethlehem, so if you could _please_ just go and adore him that would be _splendid_ for everyone, really.” He could hear the irritation, the passive-aggression, in the last words, and was simultaneously disappointed in himself for stooping so low and gratified that he seemed to have eked something of a cower out of one of them. “Glory to God in the highest,” he added, in an attempt to soften things. (According to the instructions, he was supposed to sing this bit, but ‘impromptu vocal performance’ was _not_ something Aziraphale had any intention of engaging in with a _demon_ watching from the bushes.)

The shepherds, thankfully, seemed to get the message at this point, and began herding their flocks together. 

“He will be wrapped in swaddling clothes,” Aziraphale added, just to drive the point home, “and lying in a manger, and—oh, they’re off.”

He floated back to earth, depowering the halo and dimming the light, but kept his wings out, because it had been a while and it was nice to stretch them for a bit. 

“Oh well done you,” said Crowley, strolling out of his hiding spot having apparently returned to a more anthropoid form. “Very _awesome.”_

“Don’t make fun,” Aziraphale said, snippily. “It’s not precisely my area of expertise.”

“No,” said Crowley, in tones of faux-surprise. “You don’t say.”

“Well, it’s done, anyway,” Aziraphale said, “no thanks to you.”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t get why your lot are so keen on having shepherds around anyway,” he said. “From what I remember, seems they’d arrange for the birth of the Messiah to be more of a VIP-only event.”

“He has come to save _all_ humanity,” Aziraphale said sententiously, “but, actually, there’s to be some distinguished gentlemen from the East arriving as well, a few days later, following…oh. Oh, dear.”

“What is it?” Crowley asked.

“They’re to follow a, a sign of some kind,” Aziraphale said, “I was just told to _get creative,_ they _never_ tell me to get _creative,_ and I thought I’d figure it out after the shepherds business except then they were late and so I haven’t—there _isn’t_ any sign,” he explained, dimly aware that perhaps he oughtn’t to be pouring out his difficulties to a demon but rather unable to stop.

“Get creative, eh?” Crowley asked. “Just, any old kind of signal, help ‘em find their way here?”

Aziraphale nodded. “It was supposed to go out when he was born, only now of course that’s happened—”

“Manger in Bethlehem, right?” Crowley asked.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, cautiously, “what are you—”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and a bright light rose up from his hand and into the sky, shooting off in the direction of the newborn Savior. “That should do it,” he said, ostentatiously blowing stardust off his fingertips. “Great big shiny appearance in the cosmos, get anyone’s attention, that would.”

“I do think you’re right,” Aziraphale said. A tremendous sensation of relief flooded through him, followed by a sharp current of doubt. “This isn’t—part of some trick, is it?”

“What? No,” Crowley said, looking offended.

“It’s not going to wind up leading, I don’t know, leading the visitors in the wrong direction, or bringing evil to his door, or—”

“Nah,” Crowley said. “Just your regular star.”

“Then—why?”

Crowley looked at the ground. “Just, y’know, given that they wouldn’t’ve been late if it weren’t for me, and you wouldn’t’ve been thrown off, I figured—”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Well, then. Thank you.” He hesitated. “Could I, I don’t know, buy you lunch, or—”

Crowley’s head jerked up. “Thought you said we couldn’t be friends.”

“I said—oh yes. So I did.”

“Angel and demon, you said, can’t be friends.”

“Yes, I remember,” Aziraphale said irritably. 

“Changed your mind, have you?”

“Not at all.”

“And yet—lunch?”

“I only meant it as a _gesture,”_ Aziraphale said, exasperated, “to thank you for your _help,_ there’s no need to get all precious about it.”

Crowley recoiled a bit. “Well,” he said, “thanks but no thanks, don’t much fancy your _gestures.”_

“I don’t mean—”

Crowley held up a hand. “Thanks for the offer. Really.”

“Are you—” Aziraphale started. “That is, do you think we’re likely to run into one another again?”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s a big planet, angel.” He grinned, briefly, and was gone.

Aziraphale turned to look up at the star. “Oh, well,” he said, aloud, and began making his way back to HQ to deliver what would now be a highly edited version of the night’s events.

* * *

_London, 1800_

“I can’t believe you’re really leaving,” Aziraphale said, pulling a volume of Milton off the shelf to double-check the binding.

“I know,” said Doriel. “Oh drat, I’ve dropped a stitch.” They frowned disapprovingly at their knitting, which righted itself immediately. 

“I mean,” Aziraphale continued, re-shelving the Milton, “I’m so glad for you, really, it’s a _very_ well-deserved promotion, but I must say it’ll be a good deal lonelier around here with you gone.”

The door to the bookshop swung open, and someone entered. “Yes, good afternoon, do have a look around,” Aziraphale called out, glancing vaguely over. “We’re closing soon,” he added, in a fit of inspiration.

“They’ll send down a replacement soon enough,” Doriel said. “And I’ll keep in touch, you know that, just send up a prayer whenever, I’ll get the message.”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, “but it won’t be the _same.”_

Aziraphale had been rather surprised to receive a commendation for the Star of Bethlehem—and felt more than a bit guilty about accepting it, given the circumstances. But Gabriel had dubbed it an “instant classic,” and there never seemed to be _quite_ the right moment to say “sorry, actually, funny story, turns out that was really a piece of _demonic_ work,” so he never did. He’d been on Earth ever since, on a general mandate of peace and good will. Doriel had come down around Pentecost, and they’d partnered together on a number of projects over the years. Aziraphale _liked_ them, was the thing, they were always good for a cup of tea and a gossip, and he had a strong suspicion that whatever angel came down next wouldn’t precisely share his way of thinking as it pertained to the more gastronomical pleasures of the flesh. He had, too, a sense that perhaps his friendship, such as it was, with Doriel had been based almost entirely on proximity and shared annoyance, and was unlikely to hold up after their impending separation.

Doriel let out a groan of exasperation. “Dropped _another_ stitch. You know, I’m beginning to think knitting might not be for me.”

“Really?” asked Aziraphale, doing his best to sound surprised. Doriel, in the time he’d known them, had started and abandoned almost every human craft under the sun, from pottery to poetry to papier-mache. Knitting, it appeared, was to be the last such interest.

“Well, here you are, such as it is,” said Doriel, and slid the finished product off their needles, handing it to Aziraphale. “To remember me by, I suppose.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, turning a very lumpy scarf over in his hands. “Oh, thank you so much, really, it’s so kind of you, do you know, I was just thinking, autumn’s right around the corner and you know how chilly it gets in this part of the world—”

He broke off, because Doriel appeared to have stopped listening, their gaze now focused somewhere behind Aziraphale.

“Someone is staring at you in the Bible misprints,” they said.

Aziraphale whirled around. It was the customer who’d entered before—only, no, no it wasn’t, it was— “Crowley?”

Crowley raised a hand sheepishly. “Oh, hey.” He was, Aziraphale noticed, now wearing dark glasses which obscured his eyes, making him appear at least passably human.

“Um,” Aziraphale said, glancing at Doriel and performing a quick mental calculation of _will-they-rat-me-out-for-talking-with-a-demon-if-I-introduce-them,_ “this is, ah—”

A chime sounded with divine clarity, and Doriel was gone.

“Perhaps not,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Well, then. Lovely to see you again.” He found that he actually almost meant it.

Crowley grinned and crossed the bookshop to Aziraphale in a few long strides. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Have you, ah, been here all this time?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “just, you know, bopping around, temptation here, bit of mischief there, your general run-of-the-mill demonic behavior.”

“Charming,” said Aziraphale.

“That too.”

“So what brings you to my bookshop, then?”

Crowley glanced around. “Thought I’d pick up a bit of light reading?”

_“Really.”_

Crowley squirmed a bit. “Yeah, well, that and the fact that there _may_ be a _few_ other demons following me at the moment and I’d really love to get them off my trail. And given that antiquarian books aren’t exactly in line with my whole, uh, aesthetic, I thought—nip in here, throw off the scent.”

Aziraphale instinctively sniffed the air.

Crowley went slightly red. “Uh. Metaphorically.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, feeling himself flush a bit in response. “These other demons, they’re looking for you to, what, punish you somehow? Torture you? I don’t know what sort of horrors Hell gets up to—”

“No,” Crowley said quickly. “They, erm, they want my autograph.”

“What,” Aziraphale asked, “for some spell, or ritual, or—”

“Just for a souvenir, I think, really.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “I beg your pardon, but _why?”_

Crowley shrugged. “Ah, it’s just a few of the younger lot, spawned, came on up, heard about the whole original sin deal and got a little over-excited.”

“And you don’t want to give it to them because…?”

Crowley looked embarrassed. “I dunno, gets a little awkward, that’s all, having to answer questions about the whole thing. It’s the _only_ thing anyone wants to talk about, really, even though I’ve had _loads_ of better ideas since then.”

“Like the sheep collision,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley, who’d been staring at the ground, looked up and grinned. “You remember that, huh?”

“Well, it _was_ rather a memorable day, all things considered.”

“I’ll say.” Crowley paused for a moment. “Uh, speaking of which, I should apologise, I think, you were just trying to thank me and I got snippy about it—”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said hastily. “No, really, I oughtn’t to have offered like that, calling it just a _gesture._ Rather rude of _me.”_

“Nah, don’t mention it.”

“You know,” Aziraphale said, on an impulse, “I was just about to close up shop. If you’ve managed to lose your little fan club, I’d be willing to extend the offer again.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me we’re becoming _friends,_ angel.”

Aziraphale thought for a moment about what the world was about to be like without Doriel there, and about how genuinely glad he’d been, when Crowley had come in, to see a familiar face, even if that face _did_ belong to a demon. “I think,” he said, at last, “we might be.”

“Look at you,” Crowley said, a teasing edge to his voice. “Becoming friends with a demon. Of all the things—”

“Yes, well, are you coming to lunch or not?” Aziraphale asked impatiently.

“Lead the way,” said Crowley.


	2. The Nineteenth Century

_Liverpool, 1830_

“Isn’t this _wonderful?”_ Aziraphale asked, happily, as their train pulled away from the station.

“It’s all right, I guess,” Crowley said, kicking a leg out into the aisle.

“Don’t do that, you’ll trip the other passengers.”

“Exactly,” Crowley said, and grinned.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. _“Please_ don’t tell me you think that’s sufficient demonic behavior, because, I have to tell you, I see much worse from humans every day on the street. Amateur stuff, my dear.”

“Well, if you’re going to _demean_ me like that,” Crowley grumbled, but he withdrew his leg all the same. “Don’t see what you want to go to Manchester for, anyway,” he added. “I mean, I don’t see what _anyone_ wants to go to Manchester for, but _particularly_ you.”

“It’s not about where we’re _going,_ it’s about the journey _there.”_

Crowley groaned. “Yeurgh.”

“Well, why did you agree to come, then, if you were only going to grumble the whole time?” Aziraphale asked. “I’d have thought you’d find this quite remarkable, really, you’re always telling me about some new techno-thing or other, and this railway is _entirely_ steam locomotives, isn’t that _splendid?”_

“Yeah, well, with you banging on about it like that, I wasn’t going to _not_ come,” Crowley said, scornfully. Aziraphale had the strong suspicion that, behind his glasses, he was rolling his eyes. “Anyway, what, were you going to go on a railway journey _alone?_ I don’t trust you not to end up bringing some vagrant with a sob story back to the shop as your new flatmate.”

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale said, “I am perfectly capable of handling humans, and the _last_ thing I’d want is one of them in my _shop._ They might _buy_ something.”

“Mmm,” Crowley said. “Point taken.”

“Look at how _fast_ we’re going,” Aziraphale said, deeming a change of subject politic at this juncture. “Entirely on steam power! No horses whatsoever, I thought you’d like _that,_ you hate horses.” 

“It’s an improvement, I suppose,” Crowley allowed. 

“It’s _human progress_.”

“All right,” Crowley said, in the tone that Aziraphale had come to learn meant _I actually agree with you but have no intention of admitting it._ “What’re we going to do, then, when we reach our _destination,_ you know, the one that’s definitely not the point of this trip? Turn around and ride right back?”

“You can do as you like,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve got an assignment to attend to in this part of the world, but then I’ll be headed back to London.”

“Hang on,” Crowley said, “you’ve come up here for _work?_ I thought this little excursion was just about observing _human progress.”_

“You of all people,” Aziraphale said, “should have no objection to mixing business and pleasure.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Didn’t we go to a play just last week so that you could sneak in a quick temptation for the properties master?”

“We-e-ell,” Crowley said, “are you telling me you didn’t _like_ the play?”

“I found the dialogue a trifle strained,” Aziraphale said coldly. “Are you telling me you don’t like this railway?”

“I find it a trifle bumpy,” said Crowley, in what was presumably supposed to be a mockery of Aziraphale’s tone. 

Aziraphale paid this the complete lack of attention that it deserved. 

“At any rate,” he said, “just because I’m here to work doesn’t mean _you_ have to, you can just flit back whenever you like. I got us return tickets, you know.”

“Oh goody,” Crowley said, “now I don’t have to spend three whole shillings, wonder what I can buy with that—”

Aziraphale sighed in his most pointedly aggrieved manner. “Look, Crowley, I really don’t know what you want, here, I asked you to come along because I thought it would be more fun with you here and I figured I might as well get _some_ amusement out of what I don’t think is going to be a particularly pleasant assignment.”

“Oh, don’t talk to me about _unpleasant assignments,”_ Crowley said bitterly. “You’re off, what, kissing little bunnies and blessing stodgy saints, meanwhile I—”

He broke off.

“Meanwhile you _what?”_

Crowley fidgeted in his seat. “Nevermind.”

“Do you think,” Aziraphale asked, “that all I do is make people _happy?”_

“I—no—”

“Because I can tell you _definitively_ that I have had to do things, I have had to _not_ do things, which—” It occurred to him, suddenly, that perhaps he oughtn’t to be complaining about Heaven to a demon. “The point is,” he continued, “that while I’m certain you have to inflict...I don’t know, _terrors_ , or something, on occasion, and that’s probably...less than enjoyable for you, you don’t know what my job is like and so I’ll ask you not to make assumptions about how _pleasant_ or _unpleasant_ my work might be.”

Crowley, who’d been slouched back in his seat, leaned forward. “All right. Cards on the table, here’s the thing. What if I did know. What your job was like. What if you showed me?”

“Why would I do _that?”_

“Because,” Crowley said, face growing animated, and Aziraphale realized he’d been holding this back their entire conversation, “then I could do it for you. Your job. I mean, not the whole thing, of course, but, you know, if you’re ever in a pinch, I could—help out. Do a quick blessing or two. Smite some evil-doers. Whatever.”

“Why? I mean, wouldn’t you get in _trouble?_ With your people?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nah. They’d never find out. You think they pay attention to me? Please. Only thing I ever get credit for is the bit with the fruit. Apple Boy, that’s me. Nothing else worth noting.”

“Well, then,” Aziraphale said, suspiciously, “what’s in it for you?”

“Well,” Crowley said, inhaling a bit, the way he did when he didn’t want to seem like he cared about something which he in fact cared about very much, “I was thinking it could, you know. Go both ways.”

“You want _me_ to do—to do— _evil? Tempt_ people? I’m not going to go about _killing_ people, Crowley, or whatever horrors it is you inflict—”

Crowley snorted. “I don’t _kill_ people, angel, gosh, how uninspired do you think I _am?_ Killing people is messy and _boring_ and doesn’t do much to corrupt souls in any event. Nah. I just. Influence ‘em, a bit.”

“Influence them towards _evil.”_

“Well. Yeah. That’s sort of the point.”

“Yes, I know,” Aziraphale said, “and therefore I will have no part in—”

“You’re spending time with me already, aren’t you?” Crowley asked. “Might as well get something out of it.”

“I _do_ get something out of it,” Aziraphale said, indignant, “when you’re not being an idiot I rather enjoy talking to you, as it happens—”

Crowley flushed. “Yeah. Great. Besides that, I mean. I just, I don’t see any reason we can’t work together.”

“Because I’m an angel?” Aziraphale said, in the tone he used to speak to very small children. “And you’re a demon? And that’s sort of the _opposite of the point?”_

“You say that,” Crowley said, the confidence returning to his voice, “and yet, here you are, having invited me along for the _pleasure of my company._ My _demonic_ company.”

“That’s different—”

“You said we couldn’t be friends,” Crowley said, “when we met, do you remember? That it wasn’t proper, or whatever, that it wasn’t right—”

“I have since admitted I was wrong about that—”

“Admit you’re wrong about this, too, then,” Crowley said. “It’s not hard. I’m wrong all the time.”

 _“You_ are,” Aziraphale said. “I just don’t—it doesn’t seem worth the risk, that’s all. If anyone found out—”

“If they found out we were friends they’d be just as angry,” Crowley said, reasonably.

“That’s—I mean—”

“Look,” Crowley said, drumming his fingers on the table between them, “just let me come with you. On this job. Whatever it is. Show me how it’s done, see if I can’t be a help. No pressure to do anything for me, all right? Only if you want to. Just give it a go.”

“When you put it like that,” Aziraphale said, slowly, “I suppose…”

“Couldn’t do any harm,” said Crowley, “could it?”

“Hang on,” Aziraphale said, suddenly, jolting backwards a bit, “are you trying to _tempt_ me?”

“What? No!”

“You are! You’re just trying to get me to, to agree to let you help, and then it’s going to be all part of some demonic scheme, or something, isn’t it—”

“No!” Crowley said, with such genuine offence in his tone that Aziraphale subsided. “No. What would I even—no.”

Aziraphale remembered the Star of Bethlehem, and was inclined to believe him. “All right, then,” he said, at last. “If you really want. You can come along.”

“Terrific,” Crowley said, sitting back. 

“If you’re _really_ not trying to tempt me—”

“Trust me,” Crowley said, and grinned widely. “If I were trying to tempt you, angel, you’d know.”

The steam from the engine must have made its way back to their carriage, because Aziraphale suddenly felt very warm.

* * *

_Boston, 1858_

“I’d say you’re a natural, but I think you might take it the wrong way.”

Aziraphale looked up from the wine list. “Pardon?”

“Well, that’s, what, your second-ever temptation?”

“I believe that’s accurate, yes.”

Crowley shook his head. “You know how long it took me to impress upon some of my thicker-headed colleagues that ‘appearing in some duke’s dreams to convince him that the throne was his by divine right and he ought to murder everyone ahead of him in the line of succession’ was a bit out-of-date?”

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, _“because they’re still doing it._ In the nineteenth century! I mean, come on, you’d think they _want_ to be stuck in the Dark Ages.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “you _are_ rather Dark. All of you, I mean.”

Crowley sniffed. “Yeah, got a point there. But. What I meant to say was, _you_ get it.”

“I should hope so,” Aziraphale said, in the tone that Crowley knew meant _I’m very pleased with myself right now and am pretending to try not to show it,_ “given that I _have_ been down here for some time, now.”

“Right,” Crowley said. “Exactly. You understand humans, well, more than most demons do, anyway.”

“Oh, high praise,” said Aziraphale dryly, but he smiled, slightly. “And it does seem as though you were right, no one _is_ paying any attention to us, so I agree, there’s no reason we can’t...help each other out. From time to time.”

“Exactly,” Crowley said, “it’s efficiency, that’s all. End result’s the same.”

“I agreed, you know,” said Aziraphale. “You don’t need to keep on persuading.”

“Right,” Crowley said, and turned his attention to the menu. “Mock turtle soup means no _actual_ turtle, yeah?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “that is the generally agreed-upon definition of _mock.”_

Crowley groaned. “I know what _words_ mean.”

“You ought to be more precise in your use of them, then,” Aziraphale said.

 _“Why_ do I bother,” Crowley said, to no one in particular. “They should put you in a circus, set you up to be gawked at. _Behold: The World’s Most Pedantic Angel! Wonder at his Mastery of the Fine Art of Nit-Picking! All This And More In Our Hall of Mysteries—”_

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “It’s made of calves’ brains, actually,” he said.

“The Hall of Mysteries?”

“Mock turtle soup.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Well, that’s all right, then.”

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously before returning to his own menu. “Would you have any interest in sharing stewed eels?”

Crowley made a face. “Going to have to pass on that one, I think, angel.”

Aziraphale shrugged delicately. “Pity,” he said. “I’ve heard they’re remarkable.”

“I’m sure they are,” Crowley said, “but the, erm, the general _shape_ is a bit, you know—”

“What?”

“Snake-y.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, comprehension dawning. “Perfectly sensible, then.” His gaze flicked down to the menu, then back up to Crowley. “That wouldn’t happen to explain the turtle, too, would it?”

“It would,” Crowley admitted. “I know it’s a bit..irrational, but, don’t much fancy eating reptiles.”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale said, “I quite understand.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, and waited for some aside, some cutting remark.

It didn’t come. Aziraphale, seemingly satisfied, ran a finger down the menu and hummed to himself.

“Right,” Crowley said, “well, anyway, you’ll let me know, then, if there’s opportunities, in the future, for...collaboration.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “although, truth be told, assignments are coming in rather less often, these days. I think, sometimes, they _forget_ about me. Upstairs. Don’t even remember that I’m down here until one of my reports crosses their desk.”

“Better than having ‘em breathing down your neck, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” said Aziraphale, dubiously.

They were interrupted by a polite cough. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but are you perhaps ready to order? Any wine today?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said, and peppered their waiter with a series of rapid-fire questions about the wine list before selecting a German white. 

“And for dinner?”

“I’d like the chicken pie with oysters, please,” Aziraphale said, “and _how_ does your kitchen prepare the beets and carrots?”

“Roasted, sir.”

“Do you use any oil when roasting?”

“Yes, sir, I believe the chef coats the vegetables in oil and seasons them before roasting.”

“Very good,” Aziraphale said, “that’s olive oil, yes? Or linseed?”

“Olive.”

“Excellent. I’ll have that, then, but please note that I’d like white pepper, instead of black, if possible. And to finish—now, are these pies made here or elsewhere?”

“We get them in from a bakery, sir.”

“Very well, then, I’ll just have figs and coffee, in that case.”

“Thank you, sir,” the waiter said, looking a trifle dazed. “And for you?”

“Mock turtle soup,” said Crowley laconically.

“Anything else?”

Crowley grinned at him. “No thank you.”

The waiter nodded and withdrew.

“That’s all you’re having?”

“Well, not as though I’m about to _starve,_ is it?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said, “but I’ve heard nothing but good things about this restaurant, we’re all the way over from England, you don’t want to try more?”

“I think you did enough ordering for the both of us.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Aziraphale asked, drawing a protective hand across his stomach.

“Not _quantity,”_ Crowley said, quickly. “Just—you don’t have to mount a full-scale investigation every time you’re trying to decide on a vegetable.”

“I simply want to know whether I’m going to enjoy it,” Aziraphale said primly. “I don’t see how that’s anything out of the ordinary—”

“White pepper,” Crowley said, affecting a mincing sort of smirk. “I mean, really, do they taste _that_ different or are you just looking for things to be particular about?” 

“They are _absolutely_ different,” Aziraphale said, “just because _you_ can’t discern the subtler aspects of taste doesn’t mean no one can.”

“Couldn’t you just—” Crowley waved his hands. “You know, fix it yourself? If it’s not quite right?”

“I could, I suppose,” Aziraphale said, slowly. “But it wouldn’t be the _same.”_

“Oh, _don’t_ tell me you can taste the difference between food seasoned with miracles versus the human way—”

“It’s not about _tasting_ the difference,” Aziraphale said. “It’s just that I would _know_ that it was different, and I’d not be able to forget it, and it would just... _be_ different. For me. That’s why I buy my clothes, you know. Instead of...whatever it is you do.”

Crowley pulled self-consciously at his jacket. “Yeah?”

“It feels more real, I suppose. More grounded.”

“More human?”

Aziraphale flinched. “Not quite that.”

“Right, no, of course,” Crowley said, quickly. “I didn’t mean—right.”

“In any event,” Aziraphale said, “goodness knows we’re paying enough here for me to be particular.”

Crowley grinned. “And why not be persnickety, if you can afford it?”

“Precisely,” said Aziraphale.

* * *

_London, 1895_

Crowley strode into the back room of the bookshop, placed the bottle of wine he’d brought down on a table with more than usual force, and flopped face-down onto the couch.

“Long day?” Aziraphale asked, looking up from his desk.

Crowley groaned into a cushion. _“Why_ are humans so _stupid_ sometimes?”

“Do you want an actual answer,” Aziraphale said, standing up and crossing over to sit across from Crowley in the easy chair, “or is this one of your rhetorical questions?”

“Second one,” Crowley muttered.

“Ah.”

“Doesn’t matter, though, I s’pose, it’s all worked out now. Bribed a couple chambermaids, got an MP to seduce another MP’s wife, left an incriminating note in an obvious location...should be all set.”

Aziraphale clucked his tongue. 

“What?” Crowley asked, rolling over to face him. “Barely even did anything, honestly. They were halfway to fucking long before I got there.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley his _please don’t use vulgar language in my bookshop_ stare, and sighed. “Really, I don’t understand humans, sometimes, I must admit. They do the most _ridiculous_ things just for...sexual intercourse. Why on earth?”

“Uh,” said Crowley, racking his brains to remember if he’d ever actually heard Aziraphale say the words _sexual intercourse_ before, “well, it, you know, it feels good. For them. The...intercourse.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale acerbically, “I am aware _,_ thank you, but given that it’s completely possible to reach orgasm on one’s own without half so much fuss or bother, it still seems quite unnecessary.”

“Mm—” said Crowley, and sat up all the way. “Wait, sorry, are you saying you’ve— _”_

Aziraphale flushed. “It would be remiss of me not to explore the full range of sensations that comprise the human experience.”

“Of course,” Crowley said, “course, that—makes perfect sense.” He was faintly aware that his entire body seemed to have caught on fire. “Um. Well. I guess it must...feel different, then, with another person. Better, you know. Than on your own.”

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale, sharply, “you _guess?_ You don’t _know?”_

“What,” said Crowley, defensively, “do you think I’m going around doing _that_ with _humans?”_

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, “I thought you probably...had to do that sort of thing, from time to time. For your job. Seduce and entrap, or whatnot.”

“You’ve _done_ my job,” Crowley said, “you know perfectly well there’s none of...that...involved.”

Aziraphale, unexpectedly, turned pink and looked at the floor. “I thought perhaps—there were assignments you weren’t open to sharing.”

“No,” said Crowley. “No, no, no, no—” It was, for some reason, incredibly important that Aziraphale understand— “I haven’t—I wouldn’t—I don’t do that sort of thing. Not for work. Not for fun. Not—no.” He leaned forward and uncorked the wine bottle. “Drink?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Aziraphale. “Well, never mind, then, I only wondered.”

Crowley handed Aziraphale a glass and downed his own in a couple of greedy gulps. “And it’s not like—what, like I’m going to—with another _demon—”_

Aziraphale shuddered. “Oh, no, I should think not.”

“So,” Crowley said, staring into his empty wineglass, “uh, limited—personal experience, to draw on.”

“I suppose you must be right,” Aziraphale said, sounding unconvinced, “that partnered intercourse is in some way objectively superior to self-pleasure, but I confess I can’t quite imagine _how.”_

“Must be, yeah?” Crowley mumbled. “They wouldn’t act such asses over it otherwise.” 

“There’s no way to know for certain, without the benefit of personal experience, but that’s obviously not—well, anyway, there’s no way to know.”

Something large and fluttery had unfolded in Crowley’s stomach and was currently performing some sort of acrobatic swooping routine. He pulled at the collar of his shirt—why did his clothes feel so _itchy,_ all of a sudden?—and wondered whether he hadn’t poured rather a larger glass of wine than he’d meant to. 

“We could do it,” he said, suddenly and ill-advisedly. “You and me.” (The swooping thing dived lower. His breath seemed to have gone all shaky. It was all very overwhelming and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it.)

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Aziraphale asked.

“If you wanted to know for certain. Whether it’s better with someone else. We could—”

“Are you _actually_ suggesting that we have sexual intercourse?”

“Please stop calling it that,” Crowley said, staring very intently at the floor. “But. Yeah. Um. I mean. You want to know, I want to know, so—”

“I don’t want to know _that_ badly,” Aziraphale said. “I mean, _really,_ that would be _most_ unwise, I think.”

His voice sounded—different, somehow, strained, and Crowley looked up to see that Aziraphale’s face had gone just as red as Crowley’s felt. 

“Right,” said Crowley, quickly, “uh, forget I said anything, never mind. Stupid idea. Of course you don’t want to—I mean, _I_ don’t want to—doesn’t make any sense. You’re right.”

“Of course I am,” said Aziraphale, sounding relieved.

Crowley tried and failed not to be offended by this.

Aziraphale took another sip of wine and began talking very rapidly about something entirely unrelated. Crowley was only half-listening.

He’d— _noticed_ Aziraphale’s physical form before, of course. He’d seen the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck, had watched him run a pink tongue over his lips while thinking, had observed—objectively—the movement of his thighs (particularly when breeches had been the fashion). 

He had, also, as a separate matter, masturbated with irregular frequency, sometimes forgetting about it for a few years at a time, sometimes setting aside an entire afternoon. As he understood it, sometimes humans would _think_ about things, when they did this. About—people. Actions. Crowley’d never seen much point to that, himself. It was a simple enough mechanical motion and physical feeling, no need to bring _imagination_ into it.

Heretofore, he had not, in his mind, connected the warmth he felt when watching Aziraphale adjust the cuffs of his sleeves, exposing a hint of wrist, to the warmth that he felt when stroking himself and thinking idly about whether or not it was going to rain tomorrow. The concepts of “Aziraphale” and “sexual pleasure” had resided in completely different sections of his brain.

Until now. Crowley, watching Aziraphale continue to speak—the way his hands (they looked soft, his hands) moved in the air in front of him, the slight lines at the corners of his eyes, the bead of sweat that was rolling down his chin onto his neck and disappearing into his collarbones—became, uncomfortably and completely, aware that he did, in fact, very much want to have sexual intercourse with Aziraphale, and that Aziraphale seemed altogether uninterested in the concept.

(Crowley wondered what _he_ thought about, when he masturbated. Probably whatever blessed book he was reading at the moment.)

“Don’t you agree?” Aziraphale asked brightly.

“Hmm?” said Crowley, jolting out of his stupor. “Uh. Yeah. Agree. You’re bang-on.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, and Crowley smiled back, and hoped desperately that his brain would eventually get itself together enough to focus on something else.

For the moment, it appeared to be taken up entirely by a steady refrain of _you want to fuck the angel._

Which was _terrific._


	3. The Twentieth Century

_ Bath, 1908 _

Aziraphale squeezed carefully through the crowd of people, dodging a chaperone’s bony elbow only to end up smacked in the face by a careless debutante’s fan. 

_ “Ow,”  _ he said, crossly.

The girl whirled around. “Oh—oh, I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, well, learn to look where you’re going in future, would you?” Aziraphale snapped, and instantly regretted it at the look of sincere distress that crossed over the girl’s face. “Oh, never mind, it’s quite all right, dear girl,” he said, shaking his head and endeavoring to force what he hoped was a kindly smile onto his face. 

He heard an indelicate snort of laughter from behind him, and turned around.

Crowley was lounging with apparent artlessness against a nearby pillar. Aziraphale strongly suspected that he’d in fact taken great pains to appear just so, but he had to admit that the effect was good.

Aziraphale gave the fan assailant one more apologetic smile and fought his way through the masses of people to Crowley, who’d stopped laughing but still wore a slight smile around the corners of his mouth.

“Hello, you,” Crowley said, doing something odd and wiggly with his spine to shift his weight off the pillar. “Made it all right, then?”

“As you see,” Aziraphale said, allowing some of his residual frustration from the fan-slap to creep into his tone. “I must say, from the way you described this party, I didn’t think it’d be quite so much of a crush. Didn’t you call it an  _ intimate gathering?  _ Because,” he said, surveying the room again, “I don’t presume to judge, but if  _ this  _ is what you consider  _ intimate—” _

Crowley grinned. “Nah, this isn’t the  _ real  _ party. Or, well, it is, but it’s not the one  _ we’re  _ going to.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“See that girl?” Crowley motioned to a young woman a few feet away. “That’s our host’s daughter, Alice. And Alice has decided to have a  _ private  _ get-together with just a few select friends, over in the library.”

“Why?”

“I think,” Crowley said, a smile spreading over his face, “that she may have been persuaded to think that the  _ main  _ party was going to be a  _ terrible  _ bore, and she’d do much better to break off on her own.”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, feeling the edges of his mouth twist upward of their own accord, “I wonder who on  _ earth  _ could have done  _ that.” _

“Yeah, well,” Crowley said with ill-concealed pride, “makes it much easier to manipulate things when there’s fewer of ‘em at once.”

“Yes, quite,” said Aziraphale, and was struck with a sudden worry. “Ah—these  _ friends,  _ of Alice’s, they’re not  _ all,  _ erm,  _ young  _ people, are they?”

“She’s twenty-one years old,” Crowley said, “yes, of course they are. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, angel, but young people tend to gravitate towards other young people.”

“I  _ am  _ aware,” Aziraphale said, stiffly, “but, ah, has it escaped your notice that if you and I attend this little soiree, we’re likely to stick out like a pair of sore, superannuated thumbs?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nah. It’ll be fine. We’ll be like...fun uncles. Letting the kids goof around and making ‘em feel like they’re getting away with something in front of us. Should help, actually, for what I have planned.”

“About that,” Aziraphale said. “When you asked me to come along, I said, and I meant it, that I don’t want to know anything about whatever it is you’re doing here in a  _ professional  _ capacity. I agreed to come as your friend, not as your—I don’t know, your  _ accomplice,  _ or something.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said dryly, “like you’d ever allow yourself to get involved in  _ tempting  _ people. Not like we trade off all the time, or anything.”

Aziraphale felt himself redden. “That’s  _ different—” _

Crowley held up a hand. “Sure, sure. It is. Swapping favors isn’t exactly tagging along to help out, not if it doesn’t all wash out even. I get it. Purely social, I promise. Honestly? I didn’t exactly think spending an evening helping callow youths play parlour games all by myself sounded like a dandy time, so—”

“So you thought I might as well suffer with you,” Aziraphale said. “I see.”

Crowley grinned. “It’ll be fun. Games, you like games. Well. You like  _ winning  _ games.”

“I don’t suppose anyone particularly likes  _ losing  _ them.”

Crowley’s smile faded. “Yeah. Well. Not always about winning or losing, is it? Some of us just like to play.”

“At any rate,” said Aziraphale, not entirely certain how he ought to respond and deciding instead to change the subject, “when does this little party-within-the-party start?”

Crowley fished a watch out of his pocket. “Should be kicking off any minute now,” he said, glancing over at Alice, who had disengaged herself from the crowd of aunt types she’d been talking to and begun crossing the ballroom with apparent purpose. “Shall we?”

“Yes, let’s,” said Aziraphale, and followed Crowley through the room to a pair of mahogany doors that evidently indicated the library. 

Alice was already there when they stepped inside, along with three or four other girls, all about the same age, and all of whom seemed to find Crowley both familiar and fascinating. Aziraphale was faintly conscious of a vague irritation, one which he decided was best left uninterrogated. No doubt, he told himself firmly, it was merely due to the general abundance of giggling that seemed to be set off every few seconds by one girl or the other. Certainly nothing else.

Still, he turned away and occupied his attention with the nearest bookshelf. That was the good thing about a library. One could always find distraction when needed.

“Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale turned around. Crowley had stepped away from the crowd of young people, which seemed to have increased significantly in size since Aziraphale had turned away. “You all right?” he asked, eyebrows joining together above his glasses.

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, rather,” he said, infusing his tone with as much jollity as possible. Crowley frowned, but turned back to the group, which had formed a sort of circle in the centre of the room. 

“Right, then,” he said, clapping his hands together to draw their attention, “who’s up for a little fun?”

There was a general sort of squealing assent.

Crowley grinned. “Excellent,” he said. “Now, I’ve got this—” he produced a thimble from one of his pockets— “so, shoo, all of you, while I hide it.”

The youths filed out of the room in chattering groups, Aziraphale trailing a bit behind. He sent Crowley a “how on Earth does Hunt the Bally Thimble contribute anything to temptation?” glance, and received a “just you wait” smirk in return. 

Less than a minute later, Crowley poked his head back out again. “All right,” he said, “have at it.”

The crowd, giggles mostly stifled, split off into individuals and pairs as the players began to roam the room, searching.

“Don’t forget,” Crowley said, from his corner vantage point, “once you spot it, don’t say anything, just come and sit down in the centre of the room. Last one standing has to pay a forfeit of my choosing,” he added.

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder at him. Yes—that had to be it, something to do with the forfeit, that had to be the object of Crowley’s game. He briefly considered throwing the game on purpose, leaving himself the last one standing and, presumably, ruining whatever plans Crowley had for the loser. It would, he thought, be a particularly easy wile to thwart, now that he’d spotted the plan.

He had also, however, spotted the thimble, tucked into an aspidistra pot in the corner opposite Crowley. Righteousness and competitiveness warred within him for a moment—sit down, and mark himself as the first to find the thimble, or stay standing in the service of the Greater Good?

He could feel Crowley watching him, and, conscious of the fact that any moment someone else might see and win, made the hurried decision to sit down.

Aziraphale was joined in quick succession by two of the young ladies, and then a rapid flurry of other party guests, until, at last, there was only one young man left standing.

“Well, then, Roger,” Crowley said, striding forward, “looks as though you owe me a forfeit.”

Roger straightened slightly. “What’s it to be?” he asked, in tones rather too noble for a parlour game.

“A kiss,” said Crowley, simply.

Roger blanched. “Uh—Mr. Crowley, I don’t—”

“But,” Crowley continued smoothly, “of course, given the circumstances, I think it best if I let you pay the forfeit to someone else—our fair hostess, perhaps?”

Roger’s expression cleared. “Right. Yes,” he said, clearly relieved. “Well, then—” He looked awkwardly at the circle of players.

Alice stood up, laughing a little. “Shall I come to you?” she asked, and Roger flushed crimson.

Aziraphale darted his eyes over the other girls. Most of them appeared to be in various states of amusement or disinterest, except for one, who was dressed a sight more expensively than Alice or the rest and had been at all times surrounded by a clutch of hangers-on. She was pretending not to watch as Alice approached Roger slowly, but Aziraphale could see the slight displeased curve of her lip, and the way her hands clutched tightly at the skirts of her frock.

Roger kissed Alice—a quick, chaste thing—and the room burst into applause and rowdy laughter. 

Alice, whose face had gone as red as Roger’s, turned to face the group, and Aziraphale saw the exact moment at which she realized the well-dressed girl was staring daggers at her.

She recovered well, however, clapping her hands together and addressing the assembly: “Shall we go to supper, then, and back to games afterwards?”

This idea met with evident approval, and the crowd made its way out of the library, a few of the young ladies stopping to thank Crowley as they went. 

Aziraphale lingered until the last of them had departed. 

“Got wise to my trick, did you?” Crowley asked, not moving from where he stood.

Aziraphale sighed. “Jealousy, I take it? The little one with the angry eyes?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “her—I’m hoping for something exciting, now that she’s properly upset.”

“How did you arrange for Roger to be the loser?” 

The corner of Crowley’s mouth quirked. “I nearly failed, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale blinked. “I don’t know what you—”

“Oh, please,” Crowley said, cutting him off, “I saw the whole thing in your eyes, angel,  _ oh should I pretend to lose and thwart the wily devil, won’t that be a feather in my wing—” _

“But I didn’t,” Aziraphale said.

“Nah,” Crowley said, grinning fully this time. “Rather banked on you not wanting to lose, I did.”

“It’s a good job I didn’t,” Aziraphale said, “at any rate—I don’t think either Alice or I would have particularly enjoyed  _ that  _ result.”

Crowley shrugged. “Might not have kept the forfeit a kiss, in that case.”

“Or you could have kept it for yourself,” Aziraphale said, without thinking.

Crowley made a sound like a broken gramophone. “Sorry,  _ what?” _

“Never mind,” Aziraphale said, quickly, realizing the full implications of his suggestion. “Ah—silly joke, that’s all—” 

He was borne back, suddenly and with force, to the backroom of his bookshop, ten years earlier, to Crowley saying, _ “We could do it. You and me.” _ Aziraphale saw, clear in his mind, how his mouth had looked when he’d said it, wine-stained lips slightly parted. He remembered wondering, fleetingly, just what Crowley would taste like.

He’d said no, of course, because it was an idiotic idea, or, worse, a half-hearted stab at temptation, and in any case it wasn’t as though he had any interest in—that. But the concept was out there, now, in the space between them, and Aziraphale had found himself not wholly able to forget it.

He wrenched himself back to the present, and forced what was surely a fatuous smile onto his face. “Although, I must say, that would  _ certainly  _ be a spot of entertainment for the young people—”

Crowley laughed. “It would, at that.” He stepped forward. “Supper, angel?”

“Oh,  _ yes,”  _ said Aziraphale.

* * *

_ London, 1964 _

They were the last ones out of the cinema, because Crowley had insisted on staying in their seats till after everyone else had left, as though he thought the projectionist might have been reserving an extra reel for those hardy enough to stick it out.

“Well?” he asked, turning to Aziraphale as they stepped outside. “What’d you think?”

Aziraphale hesitated. Crowley was so clearly delighted by the picture that it seemed a shame to dampen his spirits. “Very clever,” he said, at last. “With the, ah, the  _ gadgets,  _ and all the running about. Rather amusing.”

Apparently he hadn’t done enough dissembling, because Crowley’s face fell.

“You  _ didn’t  _ like it, then,” he said, accusatorily.

“I didn’t  _ not  _ like it,” Aziraphale protested. “But—”

“But what?”

“Well, I mean to say, you can’t  _ really  _ have thought that a—a  _ spy movie  _ was likely to be my sort of thing, can you? I don’t doubt it’s all very well for what it is, but it’s just so dreadfully—on-the-nose, I suppose. Not very  _ realistic,  _ is it?”

“It’s not supposed to be  _ realistic,”  _ Crowley said, not looking at him, “it’s supposed to be  _ fun.  _ Not that you—never mind. I shouldn’t have asked you, I guess, should’ve known you’d just turn your nose up at the whole thing—”

“I’m not turning my nose up at it,” Aziraphale protested, “I quite see how  _ you  _ would enjoy it, and it was  _ diverting,  _ in its way, but, my dear, some of the  _ names—” _

“What, all right, yeah, I’ll give you that  _ Pussy Galore  _ isn’t the most subtle humour ever to grace the silver screen—”

“ _ I’ll  _ say—”

“But don’t you want to just—I don’t know, get swept up in it all? Pretend it could really happen, all the dashing around and doing impossible things and saving the world? Defuse a bomb in the nick of time, get your windows shot out in a car chase, fly off into the sunset?”

“I expect you  _ could  _ fly off into the sunset, if you wanted,” Aziraphale said prosaically. “You’ve got wings.”

“That’s not the  _ point,”  _ Crowley said.

“Well, I don’t see why you’re so enamoured of  _ impossible feats  _ when you yourself can do things those human script-writers couldn’t dream of—”

Crowley shook his head. “No. No. It’s like—your stage magic, I guess. You can do proper magic, make things disappear with a snap of your fingers, and yet you’ve spent countless hours fumbling with a coin practising sleight-of-hand—why?”

“Because it takes  _ skill,”  _ Aziraphale said, “in a way that doing miracles doesn’t, it’s entirely acquired, not remotely innate, it’s something completely  _ chosen.  _ I don’t understand how watching a human dart around blowing things up means anything to  _ you—” _

Crowley looked as though he were about to say something, but thought better of it. He shook his head, again. “Yeah. Right. It doesn’t—never mind.”

“It’s all down to individual taste, I expect,” said Aziraphale, feeling as though he’d taken a wrong step somewhere and wanting to drag the conversation back to safer ground. “I mean, you didn’t care for  _ West Side Story  _ at  _ all,  _ but I thought—”

Crowley snorted. “Shakespeare with singing, how  _ clever,  _ yeah, I didn’t like it.”

“That’s dreadfully reductive,” Aziraphale said. “So  _ romantic.” _

“Tony  _ dies,”  _ Crowley pointed out. “I’ll grant you that it’s a  _ bit  _ less idiotic than the bit with the fake-out poison in the original, but, not exactly my idea of a happy ending.”

“Or  _ Casablanca,”  _ Aziraphale continued, not really listening. “When they say goodbye—”

“Why on  _ Earth,”  _ Crowley demanded, “do you only ever enjoy the stories where the lovers don’t end up together? I mean, really, one of ‘em dies, or both of ‘em die, or one of them leaves the other all self-sacrificially, or some rot—why’s your only idea of  _ romance  _ one with a tragic end?”

Aziraphale drew away from him. “Oh,  _ please,”  _ he said, “as though you’re any better, that James Bond has a different girl every film, doesn’t he, not exactly modeling an enduring relationship  _ there,  _ is he?”

“Yeah, well, at least they’re happy. At the end,” Crowley said, scowling. “Doesn’t matter so much what’ll happen in the future, does it, as long as they’re happy right then and there.”

“I can’t agree,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose I just find that—the loss makes it all a great deal more realistic and moving, that’s all. In  _ Casablanca,  _ you know, where he tells her to go, and she goes, because—well, because she  _ has  _ to, I think.”

“So, what,” Crowley said, harshly, “either they risk everything and die or they don’t even bother to give it a go? Real cheery stuff, angel.”

“I didn’t say it was all sunshine and rainbows,” Aziraphale said. They rounded a corner, and he could see Crowley’s car a short way ahead. “I’m leaving town tomorrow, you know,” he said, abruptly.

Crowley turned towards him. “Oh? Off to do a spot of blessing, then?”

“What else?” Aziraphale asked wryly, and then— “No, don’t say it, yes, I know  _ what else,  _ thank you. Yes. Little job over in Scotland, should be rather pleasant, in fact. What about you? Up to anything?”

Crowley shrugged. “Nothing official. Think I might head over to the Continent, play a little Minesweeper to pass the time.”

“A little what?”

“Minesweeper,” Crowley repeated. “Game I invented. You go to an old battlefield and try to make your way across without stepping on any active landmines. I’ve been timing myself, trying to beat my records.”

“How diverting,” Aziraphale said, sounding unconvincing even to himself. “And if you  _ do  _ step on a landmine?”

“Boom, discorporation,” Crowley said cheerfully. “But don’t you worry. I’m very good. Haven’t died yet.”

“I didn’t say I was worried,” Aziraphale said mildly.

Crowley laughed. “You didn’t, at that.”

They’d reached the car now, and Crowley cocked his head at it. “Ride home, then?”

Aziraphale took this, correctly, to mean  _ let’s not fight about films any longer. _

“Yes, please,” he said.

* * *

_ New York City, 1989 _

They’d found each other in the same cities more and more often as time went on—mostly by coincidence, occasionally by design. Crowley, who’d been the one to bring up the idea of trading jobs in the first place, sometimes thought that they weren’t taking nearly enough advantage of their arrangement, given how often they kept running into each other and the obvious redundancies that entailed. He didn’t mention this, however, and neither did Aziraphale, and they went on in what Crowley thought or hoped was tacit agreement that their periodic run-ins were worth the bother.

Aziraphale, of course, wanted to try every last restaurant and patisserie and cheesemonger in whatever city they happened to be in, operating off some enormous, never-seen list of recommendations from his “connections” (Crowley imagined a sort of celestial Baedeker). Crowley was happy to tag along, making a game of ordering whatever he guessed would get the funniest reaction out of the waiter (an entire pig’s head all to himself; French Onion soup, but served ice-cold; a single chicken finger) or contenting himself with a glass of wine or cup of coffee while Aziraphale tucked in to whatever his extensive interrogation of the staff determined was the ideal option.

This particular establishment, a hole-in-the-wall sort of diner place, had been, Aziraphale said,  _ highly  _ recommended for its dessert menu, particularly the selection of fresh-baked fruit pies. 

“If I get the blueberry,” he said, frowning at the list of flavours written in chalk on the wall, “and you get another one, we can share—what do you think, cherry? Strawberry rhubarb? Apple?’

_ “Not  _ apple,” Crowley said quickly.

Aziraphale glanced up. “No—no, I suppose not.”

“Strawberry rhubarb’s fine,” Crowley added, not wanting to linger on the moment. “D’you want me to get ice cream with it, or—”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no, from what I’ve heard these pies are best enjoyed plain.”

“All right,” Crowley said, peaceably, and duly ordered his strawberry rhubarb pie when the waitress came round. 

The plates arrived with remarkable speed—that, apparently, was the advantage of casual dining, not having to wait an age for each course to be delivered—and Aziraphale visibly dithered over which flavour to try first before pulling the blueberry towards him and taking a careful bite.

He closed his eyes as he chewed, and sighed a bit.

“Live up to the hype, then?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale’s eyes opened again. “Oh,  _ yes,”  _ he said, “do try some, it’s  _ splendid.” _

Crowley shook his head. “I’m set for now, angel. Go on.”

Aziraphale barely hesitated before taking another forkful of pie, again closing his eyes and letting out—all right, this time it was less of a  _ sigh  _ and more of, well, a  _ moan.  _

An elderly lady at the adjacent table glanced over with apparent surprise, because Aziraphale’s noise had sounded like—like—well, as though he were enjoying something  _ other  _ than dessert, that was it.

Aziraphale, apparently oblivious, moaned again. A few more patrons looked their way, and Crowley realized they were making a bit of a scene.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” he hissed under his breath, and, when that didn’t get a response, “Aziraphale!” at full volume, accompanied by a sharp kick in the shin.

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open. “I  _ beg  _ your pardon,” he said, stiffly, “did you want something?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, through gritted teeth, “uh, you’re kind of—you’re making  _ noises.  _ While you’re eating. And they’re, well, they’re attracting attention. From the humans.”

“I don’t see why it’s anyone’s business whether I vocalize my pleasure,” Aziraphale said haughtily.

“Yeah, well, see, the problem is,” Crowley said, face burning, “it sounds like. Erm. A different kind of  _ pleasure.” _

Confusion fluttered across Aziraphale’s face, replaced a moment later by comprehension. “Well, really,” he said, a faint flush rising to his cheeks, “I don’t see why—I mean to say, it’s not as though—the humans have filthy minds, that’s all.”

Crowley looked up at the ceiling, reconsidered the wisdom of this course of action, and directed his gaze back down at the red-checked tablecloth. “Uh. Full disclosure, it sounds that way to me, too.”

“Oh,  _ does it,”  _ Aziraphale said waspishly, and, face screwed-up in irritated concentration, took another bite of pie.

The moan that followed was  _ definitely  _ not innocent. Nor was it at a volume where it could plausibly be ignored by the people around them, and Crowley, glancing about, realized that just about every human in the diner was watching them.

“Stop it,” he hissed.

Aziraphale moaned louder, clenching and unclenching his fingers around the empty fork. His eyes were still closed, his mouth slightly open, and Crowley could see just a glimpse of his blueberry-stained tongue.

“People are  _ watching,”  _ he said, desperately. And they were—openly, now, no one even  _ pretending  _ not to notice the angel gasping, head thrown back, as though he were—

Crowley, in a fit of panic, pulled his hands out from under the table and rested them on top, where they were in plain view. Better not let anyone get any ideas about  _ his  _ role in this little—oral exhibition.

Aziraphale, either unaware of his audience or not caring that he was making an  _ enormous  _ idiot of them both, went on with his performance, reaching a vocal register that Crowley hadn’t known existed outside of operatic arias.

People were beginning to  _ whisper  _ to each other, and this was ridiculous, it was embarrassing, Crowley felt as though he might melt into his chair and slide off it in a puddle of shame and agony, they were all  _ looking,  _ and Aziraphale was  _ groaning,  _ and Crowley—

Crowley did the only thing he could think of, and froze time.

Aziraphale, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice, his eyes still screwed shut. Crowley exhaled sharply. All right, then, no one watching anymore, Aziraphale could finish his little  _ performance  _ and they could be on their way with no one the wiser.

Aziraphale kept going with his gasping and moaning, and Crowley kept watching—and soon became aware that it was beginning to have a, well, a very particular effect on  _ him.  _ And the knowledge that no one else could see them, that they were entirely alone in this bubble of time, only compounded that effect—it was altogether too easy to imagine how simple it would be to rise from his seat, to reach across the table to Aziraphale, take his hands—

For the last century or so, Crowley had been doing his level best to forget about his (foolhardy, and clearly unreciprocated) attraction to Aziraphale, and had, for the most part, succeeded in putting it out of his mind. But watching him pant for breath, hearing those noises? He couldn’t help but picture what it might be like to be the source of such ecstasy, to wring those sounds out of Aziraphale not in mockery but in sincerity. 

And Aziraphale wasn’t watching him, no one was watching him, and he let himself indulge in a brief moment of fantasy, feeling a rising heat in his belly, the tell-tale gnaw of desire in his chest.

Aziraphale reached a—well, a  _ climax,  _ vocally speaking, slammed his fist down on the table in a final expression of simulated passion, and opened his eyes.

Crowley surreptitiously un-froze time, and the diners around them snapped back into motion, looking slightly confused.

“Enjoy yourself?” he asked Aziraphale, who looked entirely the wrong kind of satisfied.

“Simply buckets,” Aziraphale said, and, as though nothing whatsoever had happened, took another dainty bite of pie. 


	4. The Twenty-First Century

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to darcy for beta-reading this chapter for me!

_London, 2003_

The hospital was crowded, and Aziraphale walked in and past the check-in desk without anyone seeming to notice him particularly. 

“Scuse me, sir,” a nurse said, pushing by him, tray of blood vials in hand. 

“Ah—” Aziraphale began. The nurse hurried onward without looking back.

Aziraphale sighed, and let him go. He was looking for a particular patient—a young, sick boy Heaven had identified as in need of healing—and the odds that any given worker would actually know his whereabouts were presumably fairly low.

Instead, he approached what appeared to be some sort of information desk (Aziraphale was only glancingly acquainted with hospitals) and inquired, in tones of divine persuasion, where he might find the boy in question.

The hospital worker, her face slightly wrinkled with confusion, directed him to a ward a few minutes’ walk away. Aziraphale thanked her and set off.

As he continued through the halls, he noticed that nearly every doctor, nurse, physician’s assistant, and other employee he passed seemed exhausted, frazzled, frustrated, overwhelmed—not simply _busy,_ but desperate. Dark-circled eyes, foreheads frozen into permanent frowns, voices snapping harshly at each other “Can you for _God’s_ sake get a move on, Millie, the surgeon _needs_ you…”

Aziraphale reached the bedside of the boy he’d come to heal. The child was sleeping, and Aziraphale glanced quickly at the paperwork next to him. It was chiefly medical terminology that meant nothing to him (unsurprising, that), but from what he could understand, it certainly didn’t appear as though the boy were doing any _better_ than he’d been told.

The child stirred, and Aziraphale nearly dropped the chart in surprise.

“Are you the doctor?” he asked, eyes blinking blearily at Aziraphale.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said uncomfortably, “no, I’m just—I’m just here.” 

“Oh,” said the boy, and rolled over. 

“Hold on,” Aziraphale said, realizing something, “shouldn’t you _know_ your doctor?”

The child turned back towards Aziraphale and shook his head. “Haven’t seen anyone in ever so long, it’s always a different person…”

“Well, now, that can’t be good,” Aziraphale said, mostly to himself. He glanced out at the corridor again, at the harried pace of the workers. There wasn’t any _chance_ that the boy could be getting the care he needed, not with the staff stretched so thin. And although Aziraphale could heal him, now, and although he could probably get away with helping along a few more people, he’d have to leave sooner or later, and then there’d be new patients, and it would all go downhill again.

He remembered, once, when Crowley had done a blessing on his behalf, the demon had come round afterwards and started going on about how it wasn’t _actually_ going to do anyone any good, because he hadn’t actually changed the _system._ “That wasn’t the assignment,” Aziraphale had said, and Crowley had just rolled his eyes with such conviction that it was clear even behind sunglasses, and Aziraphale had written it off as Crowley attempting to justify why he wasn’t actually doing Good (Aziraphale being very familiar with similar justifications for why he wasn’t actually doing Evil).

But, he realized now, looking around again, Crowley had actually had a point. Aziraphale could miracle the boy healthy, and he’d go on to fulfill whatever grand plans Heaven had in store for him, and that would all be very well, but it wouldn’t actually _fix_ the reason the child hadn’t been receiving the care he needed in the first place. The hospital would remain understaffed and overstretched, and there wasn’t a thing Aziraphale could do about it.

Except, of course, there _was._

Aziraphale thought for a moment, and snapped his fingers. Somewhere across the city, a dot-com millionaire came to the sudden realization that he really ought to be giving back more, and dialed his bankers to see about donating enough money to get a wing named after him.

“Sir?” the boy said, and Aziraphale, who’d almost forgotten him, glanced back down. “If you’re not a doctor, then why are you here?”

Aziraphale snapped again. The boy didn’t _look_ any different, but, then, he wouldn’t, right away, would he? “Ah—looking for a friend,” he said. “But I believe I might be in the wrong place.” 

* * *

When the reprimand came, about a week later, it was nearly a relief. Almost immediately after leaving the hospital, Aziraphale had been assailed by doubt and regret—he’d far exceeded the mandate he’d been given, and he _knew_ how poorly Management tended to respond to that—and had been spending every moment since on tenterhooks, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

The note, which managed somehow to convey a sneer through text, hadn’t detailed his transgression, merely summoned him to a performance review “at his earliest convenience.” 

Aziraphale, out of pure spite, settled down in his favourite armchair and read two murder mysteries and a romance novel before heading up.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel said, clapping him heartily on the shoulder in a way that likely would’ve hurt if they’d been strictly corporeal. “Thanks for coming up, bud.”

“You said you wished to discuss my performance,” Aziraphale said, stiffly. He noticed Doriel standing with a few other angels a short distance away. They raised a hand in an awkward sort of wave. Aziraphale didn’t return the gesture.

“Yeah,” Gabriel said, with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I gotta say, Aziraphale, you know I don’t like to micromanage you down there—”

 _Interesting way of saying that you haven’t paid me any attention for the last two thousand years,_ Aziraphale thought.

“—But I _gotta_ say, that bit with the hospital…” He made the sort of face Aziraphale associated with indigestion or particularly foul smells. “Not what I can call up to par.”

“Sorry, up to…”

“Par. It’s a golf thing. Great sport. You’d like it! We should have a game sometime—anyway, never mind, point is, don’t take this personally, but I _do_ have to issue you a formal reprimand.”

The words _of course, I entirely understand_ hovered on Aziraphale’s tongue. He opened his mouth, ready to apologise and grovel and do _exactly_ what Gabriel no doubt expected him to do.

And then, abruptly, he realized he didn’t _want_ to, and, what was more, he didn’t actually _have_ to. What were they going to do, anyway? Issue a reprimand to the reprimand? Hold him in contempt of celestial court? He hadn’t the faintest idea what the punishment for arguing was, because he’d never actually bothered _trying_ it. 

_Well, then, no time like the present,_ he thought, grimly, and inhaled sharply.

“What for?”

Gabriel blinked. “Uh...what?”

“I’d like to know what this reprimand is _for,”_ Aziraphale said, with icy civility.

Gabriel glanced at the other angels, who either shrugged or stared blankly. “Well,” he said, in the tones Aziraphale used when talking to very small children or particularly recalcitrant customers, “on your most recent assignment, you failed to follow the instructions you’d been given.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “Did I?”

“Yes,” Gabriel said, an edge of frustration creeping into his voice.

“As I understood it, I was supposed to heal a certain patient. He was, I believe, healed?”

“Of course, yes, that’s not the aspect of your performance that we took exception to.”

“What would that be, then?”

Gabriel sighed. “You were supposed,” he said, slowly, “to heal a _single_ patient, not improve the _entire_ hospital.”

“I saw an opportunity to do more good, and I took it,” Aziraphale said, keeping his voice even. “I thought,” he said, with all the innocence he could muster, “that such a decision would be looked upon _favorably_ by Heaven. We are, after all, forces for Good, are we not?”

He braced himself for Gabriel to say the old piece, the one he himself had repeated so many times he’d stopped thinking about it, the story he’d never actually realized, till now, that he no longer believed in—that it was too much help, too much interference, that it would make things too _easy_ for the humans, if they were given every chance to succeed. That there was no real virtue in success without struggle, that adversity was, in fact, opportunity, that only by overcoming obstacles thrown in their path could they ever prove themselves worthy. Oh, it was all still _true,_ as far as it went, Aziraphale supposed. But thinking that way—it made Earth, it made human _lives,_ nothing more than a training ground of sorts, a _test,_ it made it seem as though none of it actually _mattered,_ as though it were all some sort of _game._ It ignored the way that those humans _felt,_ the whole time they were alive, the way they hoped and laughed and hurt and loved, the beauty and pain of their short existence. He’d seen how people, when backed into a corner, lashed out at each other; he saw the needless suffering inflicted by humans fighting to climb on top of one another to reach the top of a heap, believing it necessary to their survival. Because, when you yourself had two pieces of bread, it was a good deal more difficult to give one away to someone who had none if you didn’t think there’d be any more coming to you. And Aziraphale had seen that happen, over and over—had seen people boxed into corners of selfishness out of pure anxiety for themselves, had seen the needless pain caused by this. And once you believed, as he did, that humans actually _meant_ something, that they weren’t simply pegs on a great celestial cribbage board, it became altogether indefensible to allow them to suffer if he could prevent it. 

But instead of the annoyingly self-righteous expression that Aziraphale could recognize because he’d worn it altogether too often himself, Gabriel’s face cracked open into a broad smile. “Oh, yeah,” he said, heartily. “Completely. No, we totally get _why_ you did it, Aziraphale, but, thing is, it caused a _boatload—_ like, a _yacht,_ none of this kayak stuff—of paperwork for the team up here, you see? Really tanked morale. And, I mean—” he grimaced fraternally— “I gotta say, boy, putting the old John Hancock on all those forms myself wasn’t exactly a picnic for me either! So. Be a team player, will you, and stick to the assignment from now on, ‘kay? Thanks. I knew you’d understand.”

* * *

“It wasn’t even the _principle_ of the thing,” Aziraphale said aloud, looking down at his hands to see that he’d rubbed his thumb nearly raw with wringing them together. “It wasn’t about wanting them to have _opportunities to grow,_ or a policy of benevolent non-interference except in certain specific cases, or _any_ of that. It was about Gabriel not wanting to scrawl his _name_ a few extra times, because it was _inconvenient.”_

Crowley, who’d been listening to him rant for the last several minutes, lifted a hand from where he lay prone on his bed. (Aziraphale had been on his way home, intending to summon a demon via telephone in order to unburden his tangled emotions, when he’d realized it was a good deal more efficient to simply invite himself over. Crowley, wearing very expensive-looking black silk pyjamas and a bleary scowl, had seemed confused but let him in nevertheless.) “Hang on, wait, isn’t it _better_ if he’s not mad at you on principle?”

“No! No, because that—that I would _understand,_ you see? Even if I didn’t—don’t— _agree_ with it, at least it’d be something _substantial,_ something _worth_ disciplining me over. But this, it’s just, I mean, it’s _nonsense._ Don’t you agree?”

Crowley sat up. “I mean, yeah, of course I do, wasn’t exactly a big toer of lines, back in the day, was I?” 

“Right,” Aziraphale said, feeling himself redden, “no, of course—of course not.”

Crowley glanced at him. He’d left his glasses lying on the bedside table, and Aziraphale could see the slight question in his eyes. “Would you really have said all that, then? If they’d told you it was because of— _principles?_ You’d have told them they were wrong?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I felt like I could. I still feel like I half _want_ to.”

“Don’t,” Crowley said, firmly. “Just—keep it to yourself. Tell it to me. It’s not—just don’t go disagreeing with ‘em, all right?”

Aziraphale stopped pacing. “Oh, come, don’t tell me you think they’d actually, I don’t know, _hurt_ me?”

“I dunno _what_ they’d do,” Crowley said, “which is why it’s not worth trying to convince ‘em of something they’re never going to understand.”

“Well, now,” Aziraphale said, feeling some of the old partisanship rise up, mostly out of habit, “I wouldn’t go _that_ far—”

“I would. What, you think because you’ve been kicking around this planet for a few millennia that they’ll believe you know any more about humanity than they do?”

“I—”

“Because unless things have changed a _very_ great deal,” Crowley said, “they don’t exactly take kindly to being told they’ve got it wrong. So it’s not worth—whatever might happen, not to just make some kind of stand.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I won’t say you’re right,” he said, but he could feel the heat of his anger changing, shifting from the bright spark of indignation to a low burn of discontent. 

Because he couldn’t, after all, see any scenario where Gabriel, or any of them, heard him out and listened and nodded and said, “You know what, Aziraphale, you’re absolutely right, here, do start using your judgement a bit more, it seems you really know what you’re talking about.” They’d either pretend to care, smiling and promising to take his input under advisement, or they’d—well, something, anyway, which his mind skittered away from interrogating in too much detail. 

And what, then, had been the _point_ of the last two thousand years, of learning what made humans tick, of living among them, of working faithfully for Heaven and doing his best to be a _proper_ angel (albeit one who traded jobs with a demon, sometimes, but that was just _efficiency,_ really, if they were so concerned about saving time on _paperwork_ surely a bit of _cooperation_ wasn’t amiss)? If it weren’t to be listened to on matters of importance, then what had been the _point_ of swallowing down questions, of obeying orders, of smothering unseemly desires?

Aziraphale became suddenly aware that he was in Crowley’s—ah— _bedchamber,_ that Crowley, himself, was in what might be termed a _state of undress,_ that he was sitting sprawled out on his bed, legs thrown wide and eyes watching Aziraphale curiously. They darted up, meeting Aziraphale’s own gaze, and Aziraphale glanced away.

But— _no,_ he thought, and looked back, letting his eyes meet Crowley’s again, seeing how they widened in response, then moving his gaze downward, raking over Crowley’s body without subtlety or double takes or plausible deniability.

Because he’d spent so long purposefully _not_ looking, out of the vague sense that it was perhaps inappropriate to indulge whatever libidinous impulses he might have towards the Enemy. But why did it _matter,_ he thought now, if no one cared what he had to say in any case, it wasn’t as though not-looking was doing him any good. Why _shouldn’t_ he ogle a demon, if he wanted to?

And he _did_ want to.

So he let his eyes range over Crowley, noting the taut wiriness of his muscles underneath his pyjamas, the pale undersoles of his feet against the black sheets of the bed, the V at the base of his neck, a bony notch that Aziraphale wanted to run his finger over, just to see what it felt like. 

“Aziraphale?” asked Crowley, his voice gone all hoarse, and Aziraphale flicked his eyes back up to meet Crowley’s. “What are you doing?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I, ah—”

Because, of course, he’d neglected to consider that it was perfectly likely that Crowley didn’t much appreciate being leered at, and it was, after all, dreadfully _rude_ to stare at him so openly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and glanced at the floor. “I don’t know what I—forgive me.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Crowley said, his voice still low, raspy, a tone Aziraphale didn’t remember having heard before.

He looked back up, and saw the way Crowley’s mouth had fallen open, slightly, the tip of his tongue pressing forward against his front teeth, the way his eyes shone gold and hungry, the way his skin was flushed red, a blush radiating from his cheeks down to the top of his chest.

 _You don’t mind, then,_ he thought, and met Crowley’s eyes again.

“You can sit,” Crowley said, quietly, and gestured to the other end of the bed. “If you want.”

Aziraphale sat down. All the fiery emotion he’d been feeling earlier had been stoked back up again, in a new and unexpected form, a heat that seemed to have settled somewhere low in his stomach. He could feel it coming from Crowley, too, in the intensity of his gaze and the shaking of his hand as he’d motioned for Aziraphale to sit.

“I don’t know if you remember,” Aziraphale said, disingenuously, “but some time ago, you mentioned wanting to perhaps—engage in sexual intercourse. With me,” he added, which was probably unnecessary, but it was good to have these things made clear.

“I remember.”

“If you were, um—” Aziraphale looked down— “if you still had an interest, I should say that I, ah, I do, too.”

Crowley made a noise that was somewhere between a squawk and a growl. “Are you _trying_ to win some sort of award for most ridiculous proposition of all time, angel?”

Aziraphale looked up indignantly, intending to refute this with the recollection that, in fact, Crowley’s initial offer hadn’t precisely been an oratorical feat, but was prevented by Crowley surging across the bed to kiss him full on the mouth.

Aziraphale had never kissed anyone before, of course, and he was fairly certain that Crowley hadn’t either, particularly given the inexpert enthusiasm with which he was currently striving to breach the border of Aziraphale’s lips with his tongue. But their mutual lack of skill, he was faintly surprised to discover, didn’t make it any less enjoyable—didn’t distract, really, from the shudder that ran through him when Crowley’s hands gripped his waist, didn’t lessen the heat that he could feel rising in every place their bodies were touching.

Crowley pulled backwards, his forehead bumping Aziraphale’s nose.

_“Ow—”_

“Sorry,” Crowley said, quickly. “I just—this is all right, isn’t it, this is what you—”

“What I wanted, yes, please, _do_ stop talking,” said Aziraphale, and took Crowley’s face in his hands, letting his fingers wander past the back of his neck and thread into the hair curling at its nape.

Crowley kissed him again, and this time Aziraphale opened his mouth to meet him, and promptly congratulated himself on an _extremely_ sagacious decision, because the inside of Crowley’s mouth was warm and wet and Aziraphale wondered how he’d ever managed to go so long without it.

Some indeterminate yet highly enjoyable amount of time later, Aziraphale became aware of a slight tugging sensation at the front of his neck. He pulled back slightly to see that Crowley had been attempting to undo his bowtie, despite his presumable inability to see it.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled, pulling his hands back, “dunno how you manage that thing—”

Aziraphale reached up, intending to untie it himself, but his hands going in met Crowley’s drawing back, and he was seized with an undoubtedly ridiculous but somewhat brilliant notion. 

“Here,” he said, placing his own hands over Crowley’s and guiding them to his neck. “It’s like this—”

He could feel Crowley’s hands trembling as they undid the knot together, whether from nervousness or anticipation, and a wave of fondness rose up in him in response, an emotion that he quickly determined was best left unexamined.

Fortunately, the bowtie came off at this juncture, and Crowley immediately dove in to suck on Aziraphale’s now-exposed collarbone, and Aziraphale was left without much brain space for any feeling besides lust.

Crowley’s pyjamas had a drawstring waistband, which Aziraphale deemed exceedingly fortuitous, given the relative ease with which he was able to insinuate his hand therein (a feat which likely would have been nearly impossible if Crowley had been wearing his usual skintight jeans). 

Aziraphale’s hand ventured downward, and Crowley made a sort of choking sound against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale was about to ask whether that was a _good_ sound, but his hand then encountered incontrovertible proof that, _yes,_ that had been a good sound indeed.

He moved his hand, experimentally, and Crowley groaned and licked at the side of his jaw, and then things got rather hazy and confused, at least as far as the more analytical parts of Aziraphale’s mind, the ones that were keeping track of things like whose hands were where and how much clothing he still had on and pretty much everything other than the little voice in his head going _yes yes yes,_ were concerned.

There was some fumbling with Aziraphale’s belt, and a pause to rearrange positions, and then Crowley had his mouth on Aziraphale and was doing something with his tongue that probably shouldn’t have been possible in his current form, not that Aziraphale was complaining.

A flood of synapses fired in his brain, and when it subsided he realized that he’d somehow ended up with his back against the headboard of Crowley’s bed, his trousers gone, his shirt and waistcoat still on but unbuttoned and thrown open.

Crowley sat back and grinned. There was something pale at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh dear me,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley wiped at his face. “Dear you _indeed.”_

“I, erm, I don’t know whether it’s considered proper etiquette to apologise for my, ah—”

Crowley shook his head. “Oh no. ‘S good, actually.”

“It is?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “cause, y’know, based on prior experience I’m just as happy to have some evidence that you’re not just _faking_ it. Putting on a show. But, yeah, I think—probably not, hmm?” The look on his face was _ridiculously_ self-satisfied, and, well, Aziraphale couldn’t stand for _that._

“Very well, then,” he said, hooking his fingers through the waistband of Crowley’s pyjamas. “Your turn, I believe.”

Crowley’s expression went slack in a _most_ gratifying fashion, and he let himself be maneuvered into position. Aziraphale had the fleeting worry that he hadn’t the _foggiest_ idea what he was doing, but then again, Crowley certainly hadn’t had any practical experience to speak of and he’d carried it off rather well indeed, so he supposed there was something to be said for beginner’s luck.

“Do you know,” he said, brushing a thumb over Crowley’s hip, “I remember reading that oral stimulation—”

“Angel,” Crowley said, voice tight, “if you don’t start sucking my—”

“Right-ho,” said Aziraphale, quickly, and then didn’t say anything else, for a bit.

* * *

Crowley had only vague familiarity with human sexual behavior and the current social mores surrounding it, but from what he’d gathered from television and films, it was usual for one or both partners to fall asleep soon afterwards. Aziraphale, of course, showed no signs of doing any such thing, and although Crowley himself wasn’t averse to sleep in general, it seemed a bit rude to nod off with Aziraphale laying awake next to him. 

Even if he’d _wanted_ to fall asleep, he doubted whether he _could_ have. His mind was still whirring frantically, attempting to process the reality of what had just occurred. He’d had _sex._ With an _angel. The_ angel, really, the only one who mattered, and said angel was currently half-covered by the sheets of Crowley’s bed, almost entirely naked and saying something about penguins that Crowley wasn’t really listening to. 

He glanced over at Aziraphale, whose eyes had lost their usual sparkle in favor of a sort of syrupy depth that Crowley wanted very much to sink back into. He also wanted, he realized, to reach over and _hold_ him, to wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s stomach and nestle his head against his bare shoulder and kiss the tender skin behind his ear.

Aziraphale, who’d apparently asked a question of some kind, looked over. “You’re not listening to me at all, are you?”

Crowley shook his head unrepentantly.

“What is it?”

 _Can I hold you,_ Crowley wanted to ask, _can I hold you for thirty seconds or for the night or for several centuries?_

“Nothing,” he said.

Because—they hadn’t, of course, had any sort of conversation about what, exactly, they’d just done, about whether this was the sort of arrangement where they held each other afterwards and spent the night, about whether there was any need to establish patterns of behaviour, about whether this might ever happen again. These were, Crowley realized, probably things that _ought_ to have been discussed beforehand. But there hadn’t really been time, had there, Aziraphale had just started eyeing him up like the last pastry in the display case and then suggested they have sex, and Crowley’s brain had lost the ability to ask questions besides _is this really happening?_

He felt, for the first time, something other than elation about what had just occurred. Aziraphale had been _incredibly_ upset, hadn’t he, he’d been angry with Heaven and with himself, and Crowley realized with a sinking certainty that, in the absence of that anger, he’d never have taken Crowley up on his old offer. He’d fucked Crowley as a fuck-you to Heaven. And Crowley had let him. More than _let,_ he’d encouraged him, he’d been the one who’d suggested to Aziraphale that they have sex in the first place, he’d been the one who’d kissed him tonight. It had been Aziraphale’s choice, ultimately, but Crowley had been the one to make him aware that it even _was_ a choice to begin with.

And that, of course, was an altogether too familiar pattern, because if there was one thing Crowley did well, it was making people aware of choices and waiting for them to make the worst possible decisions, the ones that would drag them the furthest away from the Light. 

He remembered that first day, when Aziraphale had insisted that they couldn’t be friends, and how he’d said in return _I don’t want to tempt you._

But what had he just done, what had he _always_ been doing, besides pulling Aziraphale ever more slowly out of Heaven’s grasp? Getting the angel to learn to tempt people himself, trading off jobs with him, and now— _this?_ He hadn’t _meant_ to be doing it, he told himself, he hadn’t ever _intended_ to tempt Aziraphale, but it explained everything, didn’t it, if he’d been doing it without even realizing? Why he’d been so determined to befriend Aziraphale, why he’d instituted their arrangement, why he’d asked him to have sex a hundred years ago and followed through on it tonight, if not all in service of some demonic temptation instinct?

It all made a horrible kind of sense, and Crowley _hated_ it.

Because he _cared_ about Aziraphale, he really did, they were _friends,_ and intentionally or not, Crowley couldn’t stomach the idea of tempting him.

He got out of bed.

“What?” Aziraphale asked again, brow furrowing.

“I, um—” Crowley grabbed a pair of jeans from the dresser and started hopping gracelessly into them. “I have to go.”

“This is _your_ flat.”

“Yep,” said Crowley, hearing how ridiculously high-pitched his voice had gone, “um, so, you can show yourself out, right, take your time, no worries, yeah—”

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Aziraphale asked, voice sharp with hurt as well as confusion. “Did I say something—”

“You didn’t do anything, angel,” Crowley said, quickly, “I just, I really can’t be here right now, got a thing, um, can we get lunch later? Talk then?”

“All right,” said Aziraphale, his expression clearing a bit. “Lunch, then.”

“Terrific,” said Crowley, and, because he probably wouldn’t get to do it again, leaned over to kiss Aziraphale’s forehead before leaving.

* * *

The restaurant they’d decided to meet at fortunately wasn’t the sort that insisted on one’s whole party being present before being seated, so Aziraphale was able to settle in at the table and wait for Crowley.

He folded a napkin over and over in his lap and tried to think about what to say. _Clearly_ something had been bothering Crowley when he’d run off earlier, and Aziraphale was only willing to allow a twenty percent chance that it was, in fact, actual urgent demonic business or any other _legitimate_ excuse.

That left an eighty percent chance that Crowley’s sudden departure had something to do with Aziraphale, and with what they’d just done.

Possibility the first—Crowley had found their intimacy unenjoyable, and had felt too nervous to say so. Aziraphale supposed this was _theoretically_ a feasible explanation, but all indications had pointed _very_ strongly to Crowley having found it very pleasant indeed, and Aziraphale was unwilling to dismiss such—well, such _hard_ evidence.

Possibility the second—Crowley had become worried that Aziraphale was going to ask him to _define the relationship,_ as the stack of women’s magazines that Aziraphale had run out and bought at the chemist’s that morning described it, and had run off to avoid having to refuse. Aziraphale found himself faintly offended at the idea that Crowley thought he might become _clingy,_ or some such thing, just because they’d slept together.

Possibility the third—Crowley had been unclear, himself, on what exactly their encounter might or might not have changed about their friendship, and had felt the need for some solitude in order to process. Aziraphale deemed this both the most likely and the most desirable possibility, and hoped that Crowley would have worked things out before arriving, so that they could have a productive discussion and move on from there.

“Hey,” said Crowley, and slid into the booth.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale. He was slightly surprised to discover that his heart didn’t do anything unusual at the sight of Crowley. The magazines had indicated that it was quite likely to _flutter._ Something to do with hormones and social bonds created by mating. He wondered whether perhaps it wasn’t different for angelic stock, but there weren’t likely to be any magazines with _that_ audience in mind.

“So,” Crowley said, not bothering with the menu. “I, um, I’m sorry about—earlier, I didn’t mean—”

“Not a problem, really,” Aziraphale said, quickly. 

Crowley tilted his head. “Right.”

“I think perhaps,” said Aziraphale as evenly as possible, “that we ought to discuss what happened, and determine a course of action moving forward.”

Crowley sucked in a breath. “Yeah. So. It was—a mistake, right?”

Aziraphale felt as though he’d been punched in the solar plexus. “It was?”

“Definitely,” Crowley said, “I mean, not that it wasn’t—” he moved his hands around in the air non-indicatively— “a good time, and all, really, no complaints, or anything, but I think, I mean, let’s not complicate things by doing it again. Easier if we just—pretend it never happened.”

“Pretend it never happened,” said Aziraphale slowly. It wasn’t even that he _disagreed_ with the notion. He just hadn’t expected _Crowley_ to be the one to put it forward. He’d expected—all right, he’d expected Crowley to suggest that there wasn’t any reason they couldn’t go on as they had before, only adding sex to the mix, another arrangement to add to the one before. _Friends with benefits,_ it was called, apparently. And then Aziraphale would have _declined_ this offer, obviously, he’d have politely said that it sounded very pleasant but that it really wasn’t _wise,_ and Crowley would have wheedled a bit but would have accepted his denial with a minimum of pushback, and they’d have parted as friends, just as they’d been yesterday.

But here was Crowley, apparently not wanting to do it again, apparently wishing they _hadn’t_ done it in the first place— _it was a mistake—_ and Aziraphale felt far more hurt than he had any right to at Crowley suggesting the course of action that Aziraphale had been going to put forward himself.

“Go back to the way things were before,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale wished he could see his eyes. “We’re friends. Yeah? No need to—mess with that. We wanted to see what it was like, well, uh, question answered, so—”

“So there’s no need to do it again,” Aziraphale said, feeling the intense need _not_ to be the one arguing for another go-round, to get ahead of Crowley in disavowing any such interest. “Precisely. I’m delighted you said that, really, I was _so_ worried that we might not see eye-to-eye on this, but it appears—we do. Precisely,” he said again.

Crowley nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. Good. And—I really do mean it, I really do want things to be the same as they’ve always been, you know? It doesn’t need to get weird. Back to normal.”

“Back to normal,” echoed Aziraphale, feeling the furthest thing from normal.

* * *

_London, 2003-2019_

It was a good thing, Crowley reflected bitterly, that Aziraphale’s phone wasn’t sophisticated enough to have an answering machine. Because what happened every time was that Crowley would call, and Aziraphale, through some sort of angelic Caller ID situation, would know it was him and would refuse to pick up (although Crowley supposed it was possible Aziraphale just wasn’t picking up for _anyone),_ and Crowley would hang up and not say whatever stupid thing he’d been going to say. Just as well none of it had been preserved on tape.

He’d fucked up the aftermath, that much was clear, because even though Aziraphale had agreed _wholeheartedly_ that it was wisest if they kept it to a one-night stand, he’d also withdrawn into an icy civility that indicated he was in some way dissatisfied with this state of affairs. They’d met up a few more times, of course, they’d _talked,_ they’d even traded assignments, but each time Aziraphale had been incredibly _polite_ to Crowley and it hadn’t been comfortable in the slightest.

Crowley kept calling, because he’d meant it when he’d said he wanted to go back to the way they were before, but it was evident that in trying _not_ to hurt Aziraphale via temptation he’d only ended up hurting him via rejection, and what was he supposed to say? _Actually, I’d really rather like to have sex again, a bunch more, being with you was probably the highlight of my existence and if I weren’t worried it was just inherent demonic temptation I’d buy out a hotel for a year and we could do obscene things to each other in every room until we ran out of configurations and possibilities._

(He actually _did_ try saying this in the mirror, on the off chance that Aziraphale _did_ ever get an answering machine, and found that it sounded ridiculous _and_ pathetic, which was a _very_ sexy combination.)

They saw each other less and less, as time went on, and Crowley supposed that this was just how it was going to be, from now on. Sometimes you _didn’t_ stay friends for literally ever. Sometimes you just—drifted apart.

He went through bouts of depression, forgetting to attend to his demonic duties and then forgetting to show up to the meetings that Hell scheduled to talk about how he’d forgotten to attend to his demonic duties. At one point, he got a call about picking a package up and delivering it to some Satanist nuns, which he ignored, like all the other calls. A few days later he got a follow-up message informing him that they’d found someone else to do it and that he’d missed out on a _great honor._ It was a good thing, he supposed, that Hell didn’t really care enough to follow through on punishing him. Sloth winning out over Wrath, apparently. 

And then, one day, he walked out of his flat and got hit on the head by a still-flopping mackerel.

“It’s raining fish,” said Crowley, aloud. “Halle-fucking-llujah.”


	5. At the End

_London, 2019_

Aziraphale had what amounted to a genius for not noticing things—the large quantities of abandoned mugs of tea that littered the bookshop, the many customers who had given up after three or four pointed throat-clearings, his own stubborn refusal to acknowledge his bitter disappointment at not having seen Crowley in several years.

But even Aziraphale had begun, of late, to observe certain...phenomena. Fish raining from the sky. News reports claiming that the Kraken had been spotted off the coast. Mrs Billings next door going on about how she’d seen aliens in the streets. And Aziraphale, being more acquainted than most with standard portents of the apocalypse, drew some obvious and troubling conclusions. 

He wasn’t precisely _persona grata_ in Heaven at the moment; his reports had been accepted with terse thanks, and he hadn’t received an assignment of any consequence since the hospital affair. Communications had been limited to the strictly essential—and yet, one would think that might include _Armageddon._

Aziraphale briefly considered trying to get an appointment, but decided that, given the high stakes and potentially tight timeline, it wasn’t worth the bother of going through several levels of bureaucracy for what might well turn out to be a fool’s errand. 

So he simply showed up, headed right into Heaven and didn’t so much as sign in with Reception, making a beeline for Gabriel’s office.

The archangel was jogging behind what appeared to be a treadmill desk. Aziraphale grappled fleetingly with the metaphysical implications of physical exercise for an entity without true corporeal form, but gave it up as a bad job after a few seconds.

“Aziraphale! Wasn’t expecting you.”

“No, you won’t have been,” Aziraphale said tightly. 

Gabriel grimaced fraternally and glanced at his watch. “Look, bud, I’m kind of busy at the moment, so—”

“And what might you happen to be busy _with?”_ Aziraphale asked. 

“World’s ending, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said briskly. “You know that.”

“I know _no such thing,”_ Aziraphale said. “Or—I mean, that is—I _thought_ something of the sort, but, really, you could have _told_ me!”

“We did,” Gabriel said, frowning. “Must have. No, I’m sure we sent you a memo. Right?” He jumped off the treadmill and jogged over to the door, sticking his head out. “Doriel? We sent Aziraphale a memo about the Apocalypse, right?”

“No, sir,” Doriel’s voice came. “I asked you about five years ago if we should, and you said _no, it can wait, let’s put a pin in that and circle back.”_

“Well,” Gabriel said, “you were supposed to circle back!”

“I thought _you_ were supposed to circle back.”

“You know,” Aziraphale said, his innate pedantry bubbling up, “this is an _excellent_ argument for the precision of language, because, you see, by using the hortatory subjunctive in the first person _plural,_ you failed to specify which of you would do the, ah, the circling back, and so—”

Gabriel held up a hand. “Really not the time for this, okay?”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, somewhat chastened, “no, of course not. So. Ah. The world _is_ ending, then?”

“Sure is,” Gabriel said, returning to his desk. “We’re all gearing up for the War, obviously. Whole thing should kick off in a couple of days. Fight the forces of Evil, win a handy victory, ta-da, ambrosia and nectar cocktails for everyone, on me. Cue eternal bliss.”

“Eternal bliss,” Aziraphale said, faintly. “Forces of Evil. Ah—quite right.”

“You okay, there? Look, I know it’s short notice, but, I mean, you knew this was coming eventually, right?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said. He’d known it was coming _eventually,_ in the way one knew that the sugar would run out _eventually,_ or that it would be laundry day _eventually._ But it had always been something vague and unconsidered, its implications left unexamined. (Aziraphale could not-examine implications with the best of them.) He’d had the vague sense that he’d have more time to _prepare._

“So,” Gabriel said, “actually, we can hook you up with the rest of your unit right now, since you’re here—”

“No,” Aziraphale said, the harshness of his own voice taking him aback. “No, I, ah, well, you see, there’s some things I simply must wrap up. Beforehand. On Earth.”

“It’s all _ending,”_ Gabriel said, shaking his head. “What can you possibly have to do?”

“Very important—ah—human-type-business, that’s all, would take far too long to explain, but I’ll just—nip back down, shall I, back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail—”

Gabriel, mercifully, didn’t seem to recognize this for the crazed babbling that it was. “All right, then,” he said, turning back to his sleek chromium monitor. “As long as you’re quick about it.”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale said, and jumped back down to Earth before anyone could change their mind.

* * *

Crowley lay flat on his stomach, arms and legs spread-eagled over the sides of his bed. He’d been in this position, with only a few minor adjustments of limbs and neck, for nearly six hours, ever since returning from Hell—where he’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that, yes, the end of the world was exceedingly nigh, there were just a few details vis-a-vis the Antichrist’s _precise_ location being worked out, but he’d better start getting used to a more reptile-chic fashion sense and drag out the brimstone cologne, because things were going to be a good deal more fiery going forward.

Crowley had nodded along and smiled and bowed obsequiously, and darted back up to Earth on the pretense of needing to check on his plants. (He didn’t give anyone time to ask questions like “why are you bothering about the plants when it’s five days till the end of the world?”) He’d wanted to get home and figure out a plan.

A plan for _what,_ though, that was the thing. There weren’t exactly a lot of options, not with less than a week to go till everything went _poof_ and Crowley got conscripted into a war he had no interest in fighting. And given that he’d spent most of the last sixteen years moping around anyway, it had been altogether too easy to fall back onto his bed and mope some more.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t panicking. He was panicking very much, thank you, his heart seemed to be going several hundred miles an hour and his legs were all wobbly (well, more wobbly than usual) and he’d lost feeling in one of his arms (all right, that was probably just from the angle he was lying at). But he couldn’t seem to translate that anxiety into action. 

What he wanted, he realized, was to talk to Aziraphale. Given that he’d been wanting to talk to Aziraphale for most of the past decade, this was more surprising than it should have been. 

_You’re not friends anymore,_ he told himself sternly. _You fucked that up, remember?_

Or, well, in fairness, they’d _both_ fucked it up, but Crowley couldn’t help but feel as though if he’d only handled that postcoital luncheon differently, if he’d only managed to stay _put_ instead of running away, he might only have lost part of Aziraphale, instead of all. And no amount of telling himself “you only did it for his own good” could paper over the bitterness, perhaps because Crowley had not historically been interested in doing things for other people’s own good. 

Not like Aziraphale, he thought, remembering how officiously the angel had extended his wing that first day, how stuffy and distant he’d become when Crowley hadn’t seemed properly grateful. A succession of images flashed through his mind—Aziraphale at the birth of Christ, hiding his anxiety under a veneer of pomposity; Aziraphale in his bookshop, inviting Crowley out to lunch; Aziraphale smiling in delight at the steam engine, at a glass of wine, at Crowley himself. Aziraphale smiling, yes—sunnily and fondly and smugly in turns, smiling when he thought Crowley wasn’t looking or when he knew he was, radiating the sort of light and warmth that might’ve been mistaken for part and parcel of being an angel, except Crowley knew damn well (ha-ha) that it wasn’t. 

He sat up on his bed, swinging around to drop his face into his hands. None of this was _helpful._ If only he’d had more _time,_ more advance warning, if he hadn’t been ignoring Hell’s calls quite so thoroughly...there might have been a chance to _do_ something, interfere somehow. As it was, there wasn’t much likelihood of succeeding at any plan beyond _cut and run._

He considered this briefly. Hell wouldn’t be _pleased,_ if they found out he’d fucked off to some other galaxy, but they’d been paying little enough attention to him recently anyway, and if everything went as planned, _hang on, what happened to that snakey fellow, the one from the Garden?_ wasn’t likely to be top of anyone’s list of concerns. He _liked_ it here, he’d be sad to leave, but given that there very soon wouldn’t be an Earth to _stay_ on, sentimentality seemed rather out of place.

So, then, why not leave?

Because, he realized, there wasn’t any point to going, not without Aziraphale. He’d barely been able to stand it being _here,_ surrounded by all the things he’d got used to over the centuries, all the things he _liked,_ without the angel—the thought of settling on some bleak wasteland of a planet _without_ him seemed likely to lead only to misery.

 _Why d’you care this much,_ he asked himself sternly, _you were friends but now you’re not, completely normal sequence of events, happens all the time._ Why was he still so stuck on this, anyway, it wasn’t as though he were in _love_ with Aziraphale, or something—

Oh—oh, no. Wait. No. Actually—he very much _was_ in love with Aziraphale. It was a sudden and unpleasant revelation, like going to step on a stair only to realize that there wasn’t actually another stair and coming down hard on your feet. Like a gaping hole in the middle of him, that he’d only just realized was there. 

And— _gosh,_ how had he not seen this before? How had he spent so long grappling with the Gordian knot of his feelings, not realizing that he could’ve sliced through it with a knife labeled _love_ all along? 

Crowley stood up from the bed and began pacing, full of an energetic panic now mingled with a heady joy. Because—because this meant he _hadn’t_ been tempting Aziraphale into sex, into _anything,_ the force behind his actions _hadn’t_ been his demonic nature, it had been _love,_ and he hadn’t been pulling Aziraphale away from Heaven, he’d been pulling him towards _himself,_ towards someone who loved him unconditionally and unreservedly, in all the ways that he knew Heaven couldn’t.

Crowley made a face, because that was really rather unacceptably soppy, but then again, if you couldn’t indulge in a bit of soppiness when realizing you’d been in love with your best friend since before any living human had been born, when _could_ you?

And—oh, _fuck,_ he’d hurt Aziraphale for absolutely no reason whatsoever, then, hadn’t he? He’d pushed him away, he’d let him go off thinking that Crowley wasn’t interested in him, and now there was precious little time remaining to _do_ anything about it.

Crowley grabbed his keys and sprinted out the door. He had to see Aziraphale, he had to see him _now,_ if for no other reason than to set the record straight before everything turned to shit.

He was halfway to the bookshop when the thought struck him that Aziraphale might not _be_ there, that he might already have been called up to Heaven to prepare, that Crowley might already be too late. 

“Call Aziraphale,” he told his phone.

It rang once—twice—

“Hello?”

“Angel,” Crowley said, a wave of relief crashing over him. “Listen—I need to talk to you— _now—”_

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. “Yes, all right,” he said, at last, and Crowley took a hand off the steering wheel to punch the air. 

“Great. Good. I’m on my way to yours—”

“No,” Aziraphale said, quickly, “no, better not—not here.”

“Where, then?” 

“The park, I suppose,” Aziraphale said after a moment, “that should do, that’s—yes.”

“Right,” said Crowley, and swung the car around, to the great displeasure of every one of his fellow-motorists, judging by the symphony of honking that ensued.

He arrived several minutes before Aziraphale, who’d presumably come on foot, and spent the majority of it indulging in some more frantic pacing, this time around the duck pond. 

“I assume you’ve heard, then,” was the first thing Aziraphale said to him, and it took Crowley an embarrassingly long time to realize that the angel was talking about the end of the world.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “You, too?”

“Me, too,” Aziraphale said, unsmiling. “And if you’re expecting me to apologize for not taking your calls the last few years—”

“No,” Crowley said, quickly, “no, not that, it’s that—I need to tell you something.”

“About Armageddon?”

“Not really.”

Aziraphale blinked. “No?”

“I was thinking,” Crowley said, sucking in a deep breath, “you know, I heard the news from my lot and I got them to let me back up here and I started _thinking_ about what to do, and, the thing is—I love you.”

Aziraphale’s lips rounded into a celestially perfect O.

Crowley hopped back and forth a bit, bouncing from one foot to the other.

“What the _fuck,”_ said Aziraphale, evenly, “am I supposed to say to that?”

Crowley opened and closed his mouth several times.

“Don’t do that,” Aziraphale said, crossly, “you look like a goldfish.”

“You said _fuck,”_ Crowley managed at last, “you never—you didn’t say _fuck_ when we fucking _fucked,_ I didn’t know you _could,_ thought maybe there was a, a swear-block installed in the angel software—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said, “of course I can curse. I simply _don’t._ Unless,” he said, voice growing cold, “I have _very great provocation.”_

“Like me?”

“Like you, indeed. I mean, _really,_ Crowley, what do you think you’re _doing?”_

“Telling you that I love you,” Crowley said again, and added, lamely, “that’s all.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, voice rising, “oh, _that’s all,_ is it, you just—may I _remind_ you that after we—made love—you ran out of your _own flat_ like a startled rabbit and then told me you wanted to _pretend it never happened,_ and now apparently you _love_ me?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “I was an idiot, all right, I didn’t realize—didn’t know that was what—I was worried I was hurting you, somehow, I thought it’d be better if I stayed away. Thought maybe I was _tempting_ you, or something, d’you remember back at the beginning when you said we couldn’t be friends because I was supposed to be tempting you the whole time? I thought maybe you’d been right, that it was some demon thing kicking in, but today I realized—no, no, it _wasn’t_ for any reason like that, it _wasn’t_ anything bad, because I love you and that’s got nothing to do with Hell or Heaven or any of it, it’s just got to do with me and you. And so, yeah, I’m sorry for running away before, but I’m here now.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No,” he said, “this isn’t—it’s not about _me,_ you just think this is one of those films you like, or something, you’ve got some idea in your head that you can just, just turn up at the end of the world and make some sweeping declaration, but that’s not how it _works,_ Crowley, that’s not how _any_ of it works.” He clasped his hands together in front of him. “I don’t know what you think I’m going to do, tell you I understand everything, jolly good, let’s skip off into the sunset? Is that what you want?”

“No, no, no, it’s not that, it’s not because it’s the end of the world—or, I mean, that’s what made me _realize_ it, but, angel, it’s got nothing to do with that. It’s _you_ , it really, really is, I love _you,_ I love every ridiculous and infuriating thing about you, and when I realized I’d hurt you for no good reason I just had to tell you, that’s all, because I can’t stand having hurt you for even one second longer than I can possibly help. But if you—” he spread his arms out— “if you’ve ever thought to yourself, _if only things were different, if only Heaven wasn’t watching me, if only he weren’t a demon and I wasn’t an angel,_ well, I’ll tell you this, they’re _not_ watching, they don’t care about us, no one cares about us, we’ve got less than a week left on this Earth and I for one want to spend every last minute of it as close to you as possible, if you’ll let me.”

Aziraphale blinked rapidly several times, and Crowley was seized with the impractical desire to kiss every single one of his eyelashes. 

“Stop it,” he said, at last, his voice gone all wobbly, “that’s not—you’re not playing fair, you can’t just _say_ that—”

Crowley, whose heart and stomach had apparently become engaged in a competition to see which of them could reach his throat first, took a shaky step closer. “Demon, remember?” he said, managing a grin. “Fair’s not really the thing.”

Aziraphale’s mouth curved into a tentative smile. “Wily old serpent,” he said, “I know your tricks,” and stepped in to meet Crowley, and then they were kissing, right there in the middle of the park, right out in the open, and it was _terrific._

* * *

Aziraphale could, he decided, have happily stayed in Crowley’s bed until the end of time. Spurred by his presence, it had manifested several more blankets of its own accord over the past few days, and Aziraphale had come to realize that he quite liked the feeling of lolling about under the sheets in various states of undress. 

“I see why you’ve been so fond of sleeping,” he’d told Crowley. 

Crowley made a face. “Don’t go telling me that _sleeping_ is the best part of the Anthony Crowley Bedroom Experience.”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, “I don’t know, it’ll be dreadfully bad for your ego if I say anything else…”

Crowley kissed the corner of his jaw. “‘S okay,” he said, proceeding down Aziraphale’s neck with maddening slowness, “my ego can stand a bit of pampering.” 

Aziraphale laughed and ran a finger along Crowley’s stomach, sweeping back and forth, heading lower and lower with each pass, feeling the way Crowley shuddered at the touch. “All right, then,” he said, Crowley’s breath hot on his collarbone, “sleeping’s not the best part.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Crowley, and kissed him, open-mouthed and searching, until Aziraphale quite forgot what they’d been talking about in the first place.

So, yes. He could very well have stayed there until the end of time, were it not for the fact that the end of time was approaching with alarming rapidity. It had been nearly a week since they’d met in the park, and Aziraphale was half-surprised he hadn’t received any sort of summons yet. They’d figured, without talking much about it, that they had a few days, at any rate, and that they had better make the most of them instead of worrying about what came next. 

But Aziraphale knew that outside the walls of Crowley’s flat, the portents he’d noticed before weren’t portending any less. And, for all that Crowley insisted no one cared what they were up to, Aziraphale couldn’t quiet the nagging voice inside his head that said he ought to _do_ something.

“I’m going up,” he said to Crowley, at last, “I’m going to go back, just as I told them I would, and I’m going to tell them that I have no intention whatsoever of fighting in their ridiculous war, and that they had jolly well better find someone else to lead the unit, because I certainly will _not.”_

Crowley leaned forward. He hadn’t put a shirt on, which Aziraphale considered not at all sporting of him. “Aren’t you worried?” he asked. “That they’ll, I don’t know, conscript you? Try to keep you there?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, peering into the mirror to put the finishing touches on his bowtie, “no, I really don’t think so. I mean, it’s as you said. They don’t care much about me, they didn’t even bother to tell me Armageddon was _happening,_ I highly doubt they’ll view stopping me as a priority when they’ve got so much else to worry about.”

Crowley reached an arm out, and Aziraphale took his hand. “I need to do this,” he said, earnestly, “I’ve been wanting to tell them to stuff it for the better part of the century and now I finally _can.”_

“You’ll be careful, though?” Crowley asked, squeezing his hand.

Aziraphale squeezed back. “I _will_ come home to you, my dear, I swear it.”

* * *

Heaven, which had been fairly bustling with activity when Aziraphale had gone up earlier, was now eerily quiet. He supposed most of the Heavenly Host must be off training, or whatever it was soldiers did immediately before a war. But the one or two angels that he passed in the hallway seemed—unbothered, somehow, with none of the determination of purpose he’d expected from an army on the verge of battle.

He half-expected to find Gabriel gone from his office as well, but the archangel was still there, the speed on his treadmill desk slowed to a brisk walk. 

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel said, with only a shadow of his usual enthusiasm. “What’s up, buddy?”

 _Buddy,_ Aziraphale thought, _it won’t be_ buddy _for long._ “I’ve come to talk to you about the Apocalypse,” he began.

Gabriel, unexpectedly, turned red and looked at his feet. “Oh, that,” he said. “That’s off.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel continued, “uh, turns out there was some kind of mix-up— _all_ the other side’s fault, as I understand it, _none_ of the blame goes to us _whatsoever,_ but there’s, uh. No Apocalypse. No war. World’s scheduled to go on ticking for the foreseeable future.”

“No _Apocalypse?”_

“No,” Gabriel said, irritation creeping into his tone, “what, you’ve been down on Earth this whole time, haven’t you, didn’t you notice that the world’s gone back to normal?”

Aziraphale forebore from mentioning that he’d spent the greater part of the last week being debauched by a demon and consequently hadn’t noticed much of anything. “Ah,” he said, “now that you mention it, there _weren’t_ any more fish falling on the way here, were there…”

Gabriel shrugged. “Guess not. Anyway, thanks for checking in, but the project’s been delayed indefinitely.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale, tentatively. “Well, then. What ought I to...do?”

“Oh, you can just go on as you have been,” Gabriel assured him. “General mandate of peace and goodwill, not too many miracles without prior authorization. I do have to say,” he added, becoming more animated, “that your performance these past few years _has_ been subpar, more missed assignments than we strictly like to see, but by and large you can just—” he feinted a one-two punch at Aziraphale, who instinctively recoiled— “keep on keepin’ on.”

* * *

“It really was the _oddest_ thing,” Aziraphale said. 

“C’mere,” Crowley answered, and reached for him, because Aziraphale was really unacceptably far away, perched as he was at the end of the bed. 

“I mean,” Aziraphale continued, not moving, “that I marched in there, I was all ready to tell them off, to say _good riddance to your war, good riddance to the whole lot of you, I’m in love with a demon and have no intention whatsoever of fighting him,_ and they just…” He broke off. “What’re you smiling at?”

Crowley stretched his arms further, and this time Aziraphale responded, kicking his shoes off and reclining into Crowley’s embrace. “In love with a demon,” he quoted, starting in on the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “Sort of thing that calls for being smiled at, I think.”

Aziraphale twisted to look at him. “Oh my goodness,” he said, eyes wide, “had I not—had I not _said_ that yet?”

Crowley shrugged. “I mean, I inferred a bit, not a big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal,” Aziraphale countered, “you let me go off back to Heaven without having—”

“Shhh,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “None of that. Said it now, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale’s expression shifted. “And I’ll say it again,” he said, undoing his bowtie, “I’ll say _Crowley, I love you—”_

Crowley squirmed.

Aziraphale laughed, a delighted, clear peal of a laugh. “I love you,” he repeated, watching with unholy glee the blush that Crowley could feel overtaking his face. “I love you a simply _dreadful_ amount, you silly—”

“Right,” Crowley said, “that’s enough of that,” and hauled him in by the collar of his shirt for a kiss.

“Still, though,” Aziraphale said, some time later, rubbing a finger thoughtfully over one of the marks Crowley had left on his neck, “I wonder what _did_ happen. Gabriel said some sort of _mix-up,_ do you think they got the _date_ wrong, or…”

“When I went down earlier,” Crowley said, “they mentioned something about ironing out a few last-minute details about the Antichrist. Like he’d got _lost_ somehow. And, well, no Antichrist, no Apocalypse, _that’s_ clear enough.”

“Do you really think so?” Aziraphale asked. “Rather silly they must have felt, all showing up for the war to end it all only to find that they’d misplaced the catalyst.”

Crowley shook his head. “They’d have _found_ him,” he said, “I think the whole operation would’ve sort of...centered itself around him, but I s’pose if they hadn’t been keeping track the past few years—well, he’s human, isn’t he, that’s part of the deal, and he might just’ve been...a little _too_ human for them to carry the thing off.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, I do hope that’s it,” he said. “Nice sort of symmetry.”

“Mmm,” said Crowley. “I’ve got another theory, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, because—world’s about to end, you and I finally figure ourselves out, then, boom, world’s not ending anymore. Makes you think.”

Aziraphale made a noise that in anyone less ethereal would have been deemed a snort. “You’re not _serious,”_ he said, “you don’t _really_ think that _we_ had anything to do with it?”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m just pointing out the order of events.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, firmly, “I think that’s one of the most egregious examples of _post hoc ergo propter hoc_ that I can remember hearing—”

“No, no, no,” Crowley said, “logic _and_ Latin at once is more than you can expect me to put up with, some things are simply beyond the pale—”

Aziraphale leaned into him. “Well,” he said comfortably, “I really _don’t_ think the two things are connected, but I will acknowledge that we’re here together, _and_ that the world didn’t end.”

“And?”

“And I think we ought to take full advantage of that, don’t you?” 

“Definitely,” said Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting on this story, it's been lots of fun!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [fremulon](http://fremulon.tumblr.com).


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